Darkness

Summer's over; dark begins to come on 
more early. Some nights I wonder, has it always 
been this quiet? Up and down the streets,  
praked cars in their driveways or by the curb. 
Not a flicker of wind going through the arms 
of the crepe myrtle, only humidity pressing
into the center of your brain, holding like
the thumbprint of some heavyset god. 
Not much going on behind windows: 
shades drawn, blinds pulled down. 
Perhaps I'm mistaken—perhaps I only think 
the quiet means something's never coming back.
Moths keep interrogating the porch light—
so many small insistences, against the stance
of something that won't budge. The trash 
bins wait to be returned to the corner 
of the yard beside the browning hydrangeas, 
their mouths agape. I shut them close, then go 
inside and wash my hands. But dark does not yet fall 
like an anvil or a heavy curtain. Sometimes, just as it's 
about to flood the threshold, a small rift opens. 
And then a chorus of frogs, a choir of crickets.