Again the dusk has filled this town with fog a sight I've grown accustomed to; odd shapes and silhouettes become dancers and these cracked calloused streets have become their stage. As they dance a bullfrog belches in the background a light wind rustles some leaves. In the distance I hear the sawmill; metal blades gnarling through the flesh of a helpless, old redwood begging for his life.
A night-shift construction crew thirsting for the blood of the pavement, crushing and whacking with hammers, act as a percussion section, creating the foundation. Once in a while, traffic honks in frustration as the men halt their progress, adding another element to my ongoing masterpiece, and every element is in unparalleled harmony—God himself leading the band. A warm, dreary smell similar to the smell of a brief summer downpour seeps into my lungs, mesmerizing me in an eerie, beautiful way. I am paralyzed in time, sensing the musical that is taking place around me. I listen, I look; my grip tightens on the oak armrest of my porch swing. This is exhilarating; I hope it never ends! "What a terrible dream to chase," I thought, but I knew how much I love these nights. I long for them. As I pondered the idea of making this last forever, a twilight rain lulls me into dreamland.
