Crickets are so effing loud.
Yet they make good industrial-strength white noise accompaniment to Wumpscut. The front door is propped open by a multi-colored russian lamp and the sounds of babylon fill the aural space of the porch.
Orange blossom incense and citronella candle keep the primitive winged vampires away while providing such a wonderful mixture of scents.
I've got a large glass of unsweetened tulsi tea mixed with Firefly vodka. I'm sure all health benefits typically reaped from the organic goodness of the tulsi are washed away in the tide of the sugary alcohol.
Above the treeline, which is partially obscured by the centuries old hickory trees in the front yard, there is an orange sherbet sunset fading up into a pink cotton candy haze.
In a small harbor of urban seclusion I feel alone and invisible. Pretending there is more nature than man, ignoring the occasional car that drives down my street, the thick drooping power lines dividing the sky in haphazard pop-art cutouts. People in workout clothes walking dogs and between song changes faroff wails of firetrucks.
On the porch, hidden from view. Only the lightning bugs exist in a more random state of motion and existence. Flicker on....flicker off.
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