I love sitting on a darkened porch in the small hours of the morning when the darkness cloaks me. When I first purchased my house, it sat 300 feet from three houses, and two of them were vacant. Today, my quiet country road has been transformed into another roaring conduit to the city, and the wage slaves start their hour commute to the city around six a.m. Then all the new developments near me get their parade of rumbling concrete mixers, and loads of bricks, lumber and sod.
And of course, the slaves begin returning at five in the afternoon. My neighbor to the north has two sons living at home, and both have those annoying sub-woofers on their cars, and have pretty much ruined my afternoons on the porch as they putter around on their vehicles and play cool woooompa womp womp woooopa’s for all us geezers in the neighborhood to enjoy.
But midnight is my time. Around mid-March here, it gets warm enough to just sit out and take in the loom of the distant city, the singing of the neeker-breekers, and the occasional owl. To my west is a small cattle operation, and spring nights will have a mama cow bawling to her calf, helping it find its way to a nice evenings supper of warm milk.
Once in awhile, a deer will quietly walk into the yard, but if they head toward the succulent tips of my crape myrtles, a short “ha!” sends them leaping over the fence and into the pasture. Feral cats prowl by the porch in the middle of the night, and are shocked to find me sitting there. With a spit and hiss and they are gone into the darkness.
And all of the wage slaves are tucked into their beds, dreaming of even more obnoxious toys to play with. Gone will be the ubiquitous ear buds, replaced with visions of Clark Kent glasses with streaming video and camera’s to secretly record … what?
And the time flits by. Time to write. Time to ache. Time to sit on the darkened porch and sip beverages. Time to watch a meteor streak across the sky. Time to feel a weather front pass by. Time to let the mind wander.