![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rejectomorphNight breeze flows down the ridge, rustling nearby leaves and bringing a distant hum from pine woods. I see the shadow of the telephone pole creep across the street and onto my lawn, its cross arms slowly twisting on the long axis. An automatic sprinkler comes on in a nearby yard, adds its swishing to the night's sounds for a while, then falls silent. The cricket chirps have become fewer and softer.
The scent of jasmine is gone, but a hint of gardenia lingers. I get the feeling I've been through this night before, many times. Were it not for the stiffness I feel in my joints, I could convince myself that this was some earlier year. The dead cats who once shared the nights with me here flick their tails like shadows within the shadows. Then there is emptiness again, and the unseen walk is bare except for a few fallen leaves. How have I found so melancholy a mood in so mild a summer night?
The scent of jasmine is gone, but a hint of gardenia lingers. I get the feeling I've been through this night before, many times. Were it not for the stiffness I feel in my joints, I could convince myself that this was some earlier year. The dead cats who once shared the nights with me here flick their tails like shadows within the shadows. Then there is emptiness again, and the unseen walk is bare except for a few fallen leaves. How have I found so melancholy a mood in so mild a summer night?
