Summer Twilight

There is a magic that comes in as the sun goes down. The hot afternoon wind stops blowing, and the stillness is tangible. Parents sit on the porch. Down the block, we hear the sound of a push mower. Across the street, the clatter of dishes. We feel smug, because ours are already done.

Through the trees and in and out of the quiet street run the children. Chasing fireflies, playing hide and seek; even their shrieks are softer than they were in the heat of the day.

If you sit quietly on the porch step, you can learn a lot. The quiet murmur of voices, scented by Dad's pipe, is almost hypnotic. You can hear clearly what people are saying two or three houses away. If you are quiet in the twilight, they forget you are there.

Mr. Allenby got laid off. Mrs. McCracken won't be teaching next year, because she is in the family way. Miss Porter was out bowling with Mr. Stinneson for the third Friday in a row. The banns will be read soon, probably. The Schultz boy is ill again. Maybe polio; Doctor Baker isn't sure. Mrs. Scott better get control of those boys pretty soon. By the time they are in the seventh grade, they will be able to pick her up.

The light fades. The mower stops. The conversation dies. We hear the occasional tinkle of ice in a glass. The little ones run up, breathless, with their captured fairies in jars, blinking.

The moms make the children let the fireflies go, and they fly off, drunk with freedom.

A moment of quiet, punctuated by the calls of evening birds. Counterpoint.

And then, the squeak of screen doors as everyone goes in, leaving the night to the crickets and mosquitoes.