My Street

It is possibly one of the last really nice nights of summer.

The cicadas are set to perform their dark night opera.  An alto belts his low tone, bum bum bum as the rest of the chorus promises to keep their high vibrato.

The sun is set.  Children wash in the bath.  People walk their dogs. 

All is suddenly quiet, waiting for the nightly opera to begin.

The air is warm and pleasant.  Women click down the street in high heels, whispering about their nightly pursuits on their way to some place loud and exciting.

My children, finished with their Saturday night movie.  Their teeth are brushed and they are tucked in bed.

Tired shoes scuff up a small flight of stairs.  A key finds it’s key hole.  Finally, a time for rest.

And here I sit.  Alone, accompanied by the glow of the screen and the rhythm all around me.  A part of the soft lull of evening and yet separate. 

Thinking of so many other lives living tonight.

All is quiet, humanly speaking. 

Porch lights are on.  Traffic buzzes by on the end of our street.

I hear a rise in voices as a family celebrates something important down the block.

I like our street.

I am glad to be here.

And I like our porch.  The place that allows me a front row ticket to this symphony of the night.

A place that allows me to forget about reality, if only for a moment.