Sunset Village

The sun sets over the green treed hills. By a farmhouse, black-winged crickets activate with lowering heat, lilting with creaky treefrogs, crafting an air of music in the summer of June. Orange clouds frame a picture of rural dusk. Along the boards of the cedar house are lizards—salamanders—basking in the vertical warmth that remains, belly blues alert neon on splintery wood. One crawls down to a garden bed by the building. The mint and rosemary there are devoid of great politics; it is peaceful in the fertilized dirt; a gloss beetle skittles in the shade. Apart, curious shadows follow the tamped grass path nearby. They are neighbor dogs. Two nose odor attached to the path’s tracks of the day, their tongues perspiring droplets, drips rolling in the healthy dust. Both bump and conjoin and share smelly spots in friendship. For this community they are like volunteer detectives, self-appointed guards for the locals. Today nothing out of the ordinary confuses their senses. They smile in panting and squint in the rich twilight.