I’m not sure if the first night after vacation is the best night to write. Maybe it is. Since I just deleted the entire first paragraph I wrote ten minutes ago I’m guessing it’s not. All that ‘write every day stuff’ we learn in school. One good sentence, one good paragraph, one hundred words, five hundred words. One good image. One good line. Here on the front porch, a Sam Smith playlist, the air heavy from a passing shower, watching more rain clouds form to the west, move to the north. A firecracker sharp and loud and close and three days late for the Fourth of July. The cat sleeps through it. Tried to take a picture of a drop of water on the pine tree but it was elusive as any words tonight. We're better at cloud-watching than writing or photography in this moment. It’s so still on Hearthstone Drive, not even those leftover raindrops are falling off the evergreen, although the cat’s tail twitches. South of us, down by Bass Road, a Norfolk-Southern train moans and rumbles. Maybe it’s just a night to watch, and listen. Across the street, in the oak trees, the first scream of summer from the annual cicadas. Back to work for them, too.
Well, we mentioned Sam, didn't we?
Still I refrain / From talking at you, talking on / You know me well / I don't explain / But why the hell / Why do you think I come 'round here on my free will? / Wasting all my precious time/ Oh, the truth spills out