There’s a mystery about the soft, summer night, just after the sun goes down, before full darkness tiptoes through. Leaves stir with a passing breeze and flowers lift their heads to feel one last ray of the sun’s warmth.
The rabbit who lives under my storage building gives last minute instructions to her nest of babies. “Don’t move. Be quiet and sleep while I hop over to the clover patch for a quick nibble.” Squirrels in their brushy homes settle in with their young ones.
Sparrows and robins who live in the thicket by the back fence talk in soft chirps and twitters as they fluff their feathers over their nests.
Tree frogs, those tiny, troubadours of summer nights begin their serenade, and lightning bugs dot the grass with points of brightness.
This nightly ritual has gone on for century upon century. What human feet used to stroll through the garden as I do now? What other animals, large and small called my back yard home? Centuries ago, did someone sit cross-legged outside his round house, shaping an arrow or smoothing a bow? Did a woman gather herbs for dinner or making into medicines?
If others once strolled these grounds, gazing at the stars and dreaming their dreams, they are gone now. It has all changed, yet it stays the same: the stars, the trees, the animals. The summer twilight keeps its secrets.
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