It's the end of a long summer evening,
just before the last drop of light has been squeezed out of the day.
The warm, moist air, stirred by a slight eastern breeze,
is alive with sparkling fireflies and the music of the night:
a whip-poor-will chanting its name,
cricket frogs croaking from the pond,
and over it all, the pervasive sound of the dog day cicada.
The crescent moon is in its first quarter,
and in the distance, the last fireworks of the 4th of July weekend
add their glow to the night.
Earlier, I watched twin fawns follow their mother through a hole in the fence
and into the woods.
The second little creature paused and,
as if it could feel my eyes on it,
turned and looked at me before slipping out of sight.
July is off to a good start.