Light After Dinner

Last night I sat on the deck after dinner watching the daylight drain away. The air was full of moisture and I followed the bats as they darted through the air. They were invisible until they crossed a patch of still-blue sky. 

The wind picked up, moving the tallest oak branches. They might be palms waving in a tropical breeze, the fringed opening to an underwater cave, guardians of heaven.

As I sat there, the sky darkened and a faint star blinked beyond the blue. Frogs sang and lightning bugs danced ever higher in the sky. It was after 9 but I didn’t want to go inside. 

On nights like these it's easy to believe that summer will never end, that it will always be light after dinner, that there will always be more time. None of it true, of course. But lovely to believe just the same.