a quarter past eight, 90 degrees. cooler than yesterday. the sun has dropped behind the trees on the hill, striping my living room with the softness of day's last light. the cicadas start their summertime song, a goodbye to the day, a welcome to the night, never mind that true night is still an hour or so away. it is coming, and that is good enough for a song.
i have had the door open all day, ignoring the air conditioning bill that will come.
closed doors are for wintertime.