Aug. 31, 2015 (My porch was the prompt this time)
Crickets call – so many it’s a quiet cacophony. People think of them as night creatures, but only because that’s when they quiet down to actually hear them. The air is silky warm, and a little thick. I can hear the kids playing with their toys – scraping them along the windowsill and humming as tunelessly as the crickets.
Clouds are smeared over the sky like thick frosting, with only cracks and crevices of pale blue showing through. A breeze, like cool silk passes over my skin – then gets stronger and the sun makes a languid appearance.
The guttural sound of a motorcycle rumbles by, but fades and the wind picks back up, tickling the wind chimes.
The wind pushes the frosting of clouds aside, but the sky is so pale it’s difficult to tell cloud from clarity.
My eyes keep finding the gobs of silk spun by tent caterpillars – mounds of silvery-white twisted over leaves and branches, filled with crawling larvae and rotting leaves. The could almost be pretty, but they will never be that.
The humming birds are strangely absent. And then they are summoned by this very sentence – pausing their didgeridoo wing-noise to take sips of the syrup from the feeder. Then gone again. I’ve been out here for two hours and that was their first visit. Mind readers.
Andy, the night cat has come to call, as I sip my wine and try to focus on work. Which I do, from time to time.