Out on the porch. The coyotes are long gone. The little yapping dogs have settled down. For a while there were no sounds but the brief barking of a couple of teenaged boys debating about how much a particular brand of fireworks was worth as they passed by on their bikes and then the chirping and peeping of what sounded like three different species of birds. Was probably just one species, though, and one bird, a mockingbird. Mockingbirds are the night owls among songbirds which often makes them literally the songbirds among night owls.
Now, coming up on eleven, there is only the pattering of rain in the leaves in the dark in front of me and, from inside the darkened house behind me, the chuckling of Young Ken Mannion reading something funny before he heads up to bed.
I could sit out here all night.