On a hot summer night, you could see the haze across the light of the low moon from the Pedernales evaporating into mid air and moonlight. It wasn’t just evident in the eyes. The smell of the cracking mud drying in the heat and wrenching out the mineral stench as the plants lost their hold and gave way into the low, slow, flow rolling out to the Colorado.
When the sun leaves the sky and the air cools down, you’re left with a solemn promise that it will come back again. Repeating the cycle until the last cattail fell and the Herring lost its voice.
Each dog holds their porch position, letting the baked concrete conduct warmth to their bones, while the wind blows cool through their fur and carries rays away into the milk currents of the night.
Just another night. Meander through the darkness long enough and you’ll find your freedom locked beneath the stump of a burnt out tree. A hole in the ground that smells like a week-old pot roast left behind in grandma’s oven till the meat turned to straw and the stock became a memory.
Katydid call and response and could forever, but seasons change, and the flowers go blue, yellow, orange, red, purple and back to green for a bit before the low angle light curves back around and checks in on the other side of the world.