The Back Yard by Twilight
These are the hours I love the best:
when the golden light of summer has climbed
to the top of the abandoned building next door
and all of the neighborhood
cats have slinked from inside
the woodpile beneath the back porch
and the cicadas and katydids
and grey tree frogs begin advertising
in the cacophonous personals section of the woodlot
and the dog can no longer
find his ball in the tall grass
at the edge of the darkening oaks
and citronella wafts across the crabgrass and mingles
with the lingering smell from the deep fryer
at the diner at the bottom of the hill
and the air grows heavy and moist
and the sound of the traffic on the
four-lane takes on a veiled quality
and the blue-white of the sun
is reflected in a satellite’s
long aching arc across the sky
and the windows open
and the box fan comes on
and the neighbor’s coon hound catches
the scent of something toothy & wild
and sounds his dutiful alarm
and the faint bruised smell of a skunk comes on
with the throw of the same switch
that turns on all of the fireflies
and the early windfall apples
fall without any wind at all.
“The Back Yard by Twilight” first appeared in Ecotone, Volume 3, Number 2, 2008.