Quiet Evening

An evening on the porch at the close of a summer day brings stillness and country-style quiet. There is no noise of trains or traffic, no sirens, or horns honking.

I sit and listen. The wind has laid in the treetops, but I can hear the water running in the ditches toward the creek below the house. I hear a coyote howl and whimper and whine. My dogs have been sleeping in the shade. They sit up and look toward the sound and deciding its not worth their effort they lie back down.

My windchimes sometimes clang and ring and clatter until I have to take them down on windy days. Tonight they hang and sometimes move, but not enough to make a sound. Birds are settling and I hear someone far off hammering. Must be almost finished repairing a shed or a fence.

Sun slants weakly from the west and  with no color but a thin weak gold, begins to set.

The  night comes slowly across the way. I hear an owl hoot from the huge trees along the creek, a tractor motor rumbles, a dog barks, just once.

It reminds of a long ago day when I am sitting in a field playing with milk weed pods, opening them and pulling the fibers with their little seeds from inside. I hold a few up to the breeze and blow them off with a wish. I hear a dog bark, a screen door bang shut, and realize I should be home. Up and across the field I run and a sense of fear stays behind in the grass.

Home holds no fear, no worry, no care. Home is safe and welcome and Mama is there setting food on the table. The lights are on in the kitchen and though it seemed still light outside now it looks dark. Dad drives up. I hear his car come crunching up the gravel drive. Little brother runs to greet him. Home. We are all home.

Published by Elece

I am a photographer and a freelance writer. I write stories, poetry, gift books, and magazine articles––both print and online. Photographing children, places, and especially flowers is my hobby.

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