The night was hot and sticky — even with a cloudy, tar-black sky devoid of stars.
I stepped outside and peeked into the void of a backyard, while giving the dog a pee-pee pep talk.
“Go wee-wee, Lady! Go wee-wee!” I said in the kind of high-pitched voice that always bugs me when I hear it back on videotape.
She disappeared frantically into the void and I stood still amongst the trees.
If the morning is the bird’s serenade, then the night is the cicada’s chorus line.
They sing and whistle to a tune that must’ve been taught to them by the grasshoppers. I enjoy their songs, filled with familiar melodies that I’ve heard many times on Texas’ summer soundtrack.
The spastic, slobbering beast emerges from the shadows and expects a good petting — and in we go. Back to the land of air conditioning and 40-watt bulbs and laughing babies.
And the cicadas continue to sing their summer song to the fireflies.