Our backyard is a welcome sight come dusk. Finally, a time to enjoy the outdoors, free from our fishbowl existence. During the day, the yard is a haven for many species of birds but now, under darkling skies, only a pair of mourning doves can be observed, pecking at the ground for late evening grub.
Just me, and Boo, our magnificent black cat, sit on the stairs. Boo watches, ears twitching. He hears the night sounds, hunched and watching. Something. Distant trees softly sway, a silent dance in wan light. A cool, quiet breeze sifts through saplings, with nary a sound save the whisper of nightfall.
A brilliant bower of budding blossoms has faded; only a faint glimmer of their glory can be gleaned from the gathering gloom. Darkness pervades, leaving weaving shadowed trees in its stealthy approach.
I sit, with Boo, and draw a long pull from my bottle of beer. Only a diffused glimmer of daylight remains and, with the tilt to swallow, a lone star greets my eyes. Not far, a sliver of moon greets the pale of dusk.
The nocturne has arrived.
Copyright, Paul Grignon, 2012, All Rights Reserved.