It was one of those lovely high summer evenings here in the Crotch of the Tri-State area. The humidity we had in the morning burned off by 4:00 this afternoon. The morning fog was still rising from the valley at 10:00 this morning. It would remind some of our less fortunate friends suffering from God awful wildfires out west of smoke rising. To watch it happen is a sight to see.
But tonight was warm and clear and quite, aside from the cicadas. They are like nature's power tools as they crank up their pulsating screeches. They call them 17 year locusts, but there must be 17 different colonies awakening one summer after another. Each summer we hear them squawk until night falls and the crickets take over. It's an insect symphony.
I was inspired to write about being awakened at 4:37 am by Daisy. She just wanted to go outside and release herself. That's better than okay. I don't have to mop up when she's outside. She is, of course, hojsebroken. But I have left one of those pads used by the bedridden to help stem the breakout of bedsores. When I was at work all day, it was the sensible way to train her. But if she wants out, she'll go out.
But 4:37 am. It seemed to me to be the most fragile of times. No one should be awakened so close yet so far from a good time to rise. A time so delicate it seems to be made of spun glass and dry tears. A time that the mechanical brutality of a clock could not hold long without shattering it. The time to sleep, perchance to dream. Restorative slumber is really the delicate thing here. But when it's interrupted by the weest of the wee small hours, the experiment can splinter away like cotton candy in your mouth.
And so the time of day gave me something to write about. Ain't life grand?