some lights at a friend’s house
Halfway up the hollow, a dim row of lights below the road: the foxfire log. Starlight gleams in a pool beyond. Here and there, the high-pitched, whispery chittering of flying squirrels. When I reach the houses, I hear a familiar double chirp slowed to a fraction of its normal speed, like an old 78 played at 33 RPM. A lone katydid survives out of that whole, once-thunderous late-summer chorus. Kay… tee… Somehow it’s weathered a week and a half of freezing temperatures, and still finds the strength to call at 47°F. Kay… The nightlight glows through my kitchen window, faint as foxfire. Tee… I don’t think anyone is going to help it complete the phrase, not any longer. I hurry indoors, snap on a light, and log onto my email.