Black on Purple

It’s just one of those evenings.

The crickets are carrying on, yelling’ about this and that.

The sky is purple and there’s only one cloud and it’s grey and the sun passed on and the stars didn’t wake up yet.

It’s just one of those evenings.

80 degrees with no humidity and slightly cooler air swishing around at half a mile an hour and there’s only a few birds letting everyone know where they’re camped, and the bats are starting to dart around – talking in voices no one can hear.

The moon is somewhere over there but I can’t see him yet.

The coyotes yip and scream, pretending it’s Halloween.

The solar lights on the fence open their eyes and stare all over the place.

Dinners have been eaten, beds are being unmade, no one is watching TV because the air smells of eternity and hope and the extinction of All The Bad Things.

The kids finally stop playing outside and it’s gloriously quiet while they are sent to take baths and read books and fight like hell against actually sleeping so they don’t-miss-a-thing.

The outline of the sparse trees on the horizon.  Each limb black on purple.

The planes in the sky going twinkle-twinkle-twink, carrying all those people who are missing the precious night air.

I feel bad for them.

It’s just one of those evenings.

And I relish all the seconds as they tick-tick on.