The air is warm and wet. Not the drooping wet of New Orleans. The modest heat and humidity of an early summer night in Pennsylvania.

There is no sweat. Just the warm, languid night. On the cusp of the heat. Quiet is the name. Blue-black is the color. Tree frogs are the sound.

As the sun goes down, the light begins to change. Where the light made you squint from brightness, you now squint to see what is happening in the waning scene before you. Slide to purple. Breate the dark.

We shall see the fireflies. Insistent in their signal. Quiet is the time. Dark is the tone. Rustle is the sound.

This is the hour. Pregnant with dreams. Alone in the heart.

I had a deep, dark coffe or two or three today. I know the deep, dark cup.