I love that it’s summer, and that what this means is that we live with the doors open till after the sun has gone down. And children’s voices calling and laughing allow us to imagine them on lawns playing last-century games; like the ones that left marks on our bodies: grass stains and bruises and flushed cheeks.
The air is evening still as summer air is. And the dog lies at the door on the cool of outside, while small insects fly in, but remain hovering, as there’s too much light for the smell of our bodies to be any kind of landing place.
The boys arrive back from a tour through the neighbourhood, lately, as the sun sets: young titans fresh from swimming and freedom. And their voices, deep, and tempered by exercise and satisfaction, roll through the house as they clatter plates to find food left waiting under coverings to escape the flies, who have also arrived.
There’s a small promise of a restful night as the air cools, and the sounds from the road become fewer and further apart. And if there was no more work to be done I would spend it under the tree and perhaps do nothing but listen and breathe and wait for sleep.