Decompression

Such a pleasing glow the Friday evening early dusk casts. Not quite day and at the same time, not quite night - an ample mood so rife with delights. I sit cross-legged on the porch in my favorite chair, cigarette in hand nursing a beer. Sometimes I love to simply stare and soak in the sights, sounds, and smells of the neighborhood as it, in turn, absorbs the pent up stress of my bullshit workweek; simple pleasures oft taken for granted. A favorite past time of mine is counting how many dogs stroll by, proudly showing off their owners; the highest count thus far is nine. Usually about half past six an army of fireflies come out of hiding in a dazzling display of luminosity. Innocently living out their brief lives shining bright in a peaceful competition for mating rights.{I’m taken back to when I was a kid. I’d bottle about two or three to keep in my room to serve as relief from the beast that lurked outside my window just beyond the trees} The hum of the cicada’s a haunting cadence: a perfect compliment to the chorus of a dozen mowers and blowers - the disharmonious buzz forming an oddly soothing synchronicity. Such lazy thoughts on such an unambitious evening, as I idly sit on my porch any old Friday while sipping my drink and having a smoke as I watch the dogs and the lights and the sights and the sounds of my peaceful suburban neighborhood.