The garden is tilled with my rake and hoe. I sit back and enjoy the dusky glow. Fireflies beckon my way back along the quiet stream, and my breath bellows out puffs of steam.
Despite my early wake, I sit here for a thought to take. I look in to the waning night and begin to see the bats wake and take to their nightly flight.
But wait! I see movement at the corner of my vision, shadows of lost traditions. They dance and sing before the leaf stained moonbeams in a past that I dare not compare. They reach out to close friends and take them in hand. What a dream, being in another place, city, and land.
I awake to the brisk cold of the watchful night. The blinking bugs have long past to sleep, the leather wings with echoing words have left to hunt the buzzing creeps.
I pass along the brook, rise above the hill, and find my way through the forest's chill. I see through the field of grass where my life will stay. Bails of hay lined up for the next day.
I step through the welcome frame, set the brick cooled fire aflame, and look and see that, indeed, everything is still the same.
© Aran Clary Deltac, 2001