Early evening, the back yard of a summer cottage. I am alone, except for the hidden life under the porch, in trees and bushes and in a shallow ravine of wild grapevines,
Cloudy and cool, the air heavy with damp. Chipmunks dart from under the porch into the bushes and back. A small rabbit, like part of a magician's trick, suddenly appears on the grass munching clover. Just a handful of softness.
On a low pine branch, a plump robin. His orange breast brightly visible in the graying dusk. Sleek and lordly, he turns his head, gives a few whistles, flies down to peck in the grass, then back to the branch. Again and again, the same procedure. This is my territory his call seems to say. My branch.
Crows, starlings, a pair of blue jays and a pair of cardinals. In and out of trees, in and out of the ravine. A sparrow inspects the brick patio, then hops away. More robins. Too many and too fast to identify which call comes from which bird, except for the lordly robin back on the pine branch.
Damper now, and colder. Mosquitoes find my bare legs. Still, I remain. There are fireflies, signaling from the ravine, the wind speaking to me through the trees, the thin, gray light not yet gone in the west .
a country night–
slowly the quiet
wraps me inside
Nisqually Delta Review