thoughts from the porch… (the night is swamp)

thoughts from the porch… (the night is swamp)

photo of body of water under black clouds
Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com

the night chorus is deafening, a competition? no, more like a party, a rave, perhaps to woo the parting season out the door, is september really up the block? hard to believe the speed of such things, and yet the plague remains making this all one strange stretch of life, will 2020 (with hindsight) become, in all memory, ‘the lost year of covid-19’, finding it’s way into global history like things ‘the dust bowl’ or ‘the great depression’, hard to tell when you are living the thing that will become a historical mark, back to the night outside, or more precisely surround, as loud as the din is (and it is) I find silence in the solemn solace slow march of the clouds, the half moon provides just enough light to watch the gentle behemoths sail on by, stars peek-a-boo, all covered with this loud blanket of bug noise on the ground level, I imagine this is what a hot swamp sounds like all the time, I can not say this is a pure lullaby but the longer I stay to listen, the sneak sooner this seems soothing, the world lays wet from a fresh storm just past moments ago, sparks, flashes of distant others occasionally light the corners of my visible box of sky, but always the sound, like an old coach’s silver neck whistle blown gently but every second without fail rhythmic, waves of this sound, in and out, up and down, tidal sound, I am gladly drowning in the aural sensation, only to be awakened, damn them, the damn devil mosquitoes, their minions making sure I am bound to not dull or not dwell in the symphony, or maybe they are the surrogates or the forward tentacles of the sirens, drawing me in so they may feed on my literal life blood, and I succumb as much as I can bear to endure the performance sung, the odd moth crashes into my hair, stopping there but with wings still flapping, so close to my ear as to hint at invasion into the my inner sanctum, sending skin bumps up and down my spine electric, hairs on end, discomfort, I twitch like a mare, and buck like a bull with a rider, I shake the stowaway loose, I try to again focus on the sky and sound combined, the inverted river flowing above in moonlight, but damn these blood-thirsty beasts, for at this party, no, for at this feast, I have presented myself as the main course, the last engorged orgy before the sleeping season, my legs like stalks of blood sausage presented, pulsing pods of insatiable distraction, and to prove an axiom I slap some flat, there are no free lunches here ya’ bums, and with that I retreat to my sweet air conditioned bubble… calgon, take me away

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