Glorious night that it is. I could stand out here for hours, letting the breeze set the smells and sounds upon my senses, my memories, my emotions.
I sit on the bottom step of our entrance deck, the dogs circling and occasionally dropping their heavy noses upon my knee for a little attention. They, too, are pleased with the night, happy for it. Bruiser, the old dog, takes it in stride. This is likely his last spring, and he enjoys all that the night air brings forth. Sadie, young Sadie, treats the night as a novelty, something new and wonderful, and bounds from here to there, to sniff, to nibble, to take it in.
The dogs begin to stare towards the neighbor's yard, wondering if their dogs are out to bark at. They come to me as I call and whistle, panting, tails wagging, happy eyes sparkling. And as I continue to write, typing on this little computer called the Blackberry Curve, they drift off again to revel in the sensory explosion of spring.
It is, perhaps, a little cool for the great amphibian migrations, yet the little frogs are calling, quietly, slowly, from their vernal pools.
But, alas, my reverie is broken as the dogs begin to bark, mine here, and the neighbors' over there. So we retreat, back inside, where we are once again completely removed from the explosion of spring happening without us right outside these walls, windows, and doors. No smells on breezes, no peeping frogs. Nothing but the sound of passing cars can penetrate this fortress.
Who knows the night as this?! How can we live so insulated from life that surrounds us, the awakening earth, the expanse of the night sky, the universe outside our very doors. We have but to step out, look up, and take it all in.
Good night. And I mean, it is a good night.