Summer Nights and Screened Porches

It is the start of summer--officially. One of the places that brings me contentment, especially at the end of a work day is my tiny, screened, front-porch. It's hidden from most eyes by the lilac, hydrangea, and blackberry bushes. The evening air is cool, but not cold. The evening sounds surround me, muffled and soft. Birds, occasional cars, the faint voices of neighbors, the distant barking of a dog. If I listen really hard, I think I can hear the peepers down by the river. 

The drink in my hand is an unsweetened ice tea, clear and cold, with a slice of lemon for brightness. I do some focused listening. For a minute, I'll focus on any bird sounds--or one bird to another. Then, I'll focus on human sounds, then back to birds. After five minutes of this, I am at ease. The guitar comes out of the case. It's timbre, mellow, in the best way. I'll sing, because no one can hear me. Joy tip-toes back into my soul.

Summers are short here, which makes this time on this small, screened porch all the more sacred.