What is there about a soft, summer night, just after the sun goes down and before full darkness tiptoes through the town? Leaves stir with a passing breeze and flowers lift glistening blossoms to feel one last ray of the sun’s warmth.
The rabbit who lives under the 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.
The birds who live in the bushy tangle by the back fence talk to each other about the day’s activities, the new bird bath, the abundance of worms and bugs 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. Whose feet used to stroll through the garden as I do now? What other animals, large and small called my back yard home? Was another house here at one time? Did another family enjoy the sights and sounds of summer twilight? Many, many years 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. Nothing remains, not even a footprint. 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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