Perfect

Here I am, awake at three o'clock in the morning, all the windows open, smelling the cool, jasmine-scented air. The crickets are still chirping, but the night is otherwise quiet except for an occasional car passing on a nearby road. The cat is curled in sleep, her paws covering her face. She has chosen to sleep under the desk lamp, the only light burning in the house. Outside only that lamp's light escaping my window interrupts the darkness of the street. All the other houses lie hidden, lacking even even moonlight to draw them from the shade the stars are too faint to dispel. No breeze stirs the unseen leaves. The waking crickets might have thoughts, but those may or may not be like mine. Do crickets think particular moments perfect, I wonder?

Nocturnal Delights

A crazy June bug is doing pirouettes around my porch light. I watch it for a while and listen to its buzz, then go indoors and turn out the light to release the hapless insect from its thrall to the artificial moon.

Then some other bug keeps visiting my open window. Though I hear it bump the screen I can't see it in the darkness that presses against my lit room, but Portia sees it, and she swats the screen trying to catch the bug. The sound of cat claws catching only fly screen mingles with the chirping of crickets. I can't say how much I'm enjoying the mild evenings, after so many chilly nights. I can't wait for the next full moon.