The Quiet We Share

There is a cool that often moves over the mountains
in the evening. The day eases away, so secretly
no one notices until it is gone. The peach light
stands like steam along the horizon, changing the shape
of things. Night does not give a hint of arrival
and for a while, there is just the cool, when there is no
dark and no day, stretched out like ice. No clocks ticking
the minutes, no movement of the earth, nothing growing
or changing. This is the gloaming and the cool peaceful, soft. Mist
seeps out of the jagged cliffs like ghosts. The breeze stirs
the trees, dampening thirsty leaves. No night sounds are heard.
One bird hollers far up the mountain and its lonesome
cry cracks the stillness. The crickets and katydids and all
the little live things begin their prayers in the trees and
grasses, on creekbanks where the water slips over mossy
rocks. The kudzu exhales and rests. The wild grapes offer
their scent to the twilight. This is an evening like
that. Two men work side by side in their garden, chopping
out the weeds that grow most rampant in high summer. No
one sees them briefly touch hands. Boys lean into the mouths
of their cars with grease smeared up their arms and across their bare
chests, their shining tools lying at their feet. Young wives
sweep the porches or break beans. A woman picks dead
petals from her plants, singing under her breath. Children
must be called in from playing. They smell of sweet sweat and
the ridge spine, of leaves and dirt and the mossy rocks. Their
shoes are still damp from stomping through the creek. A woman
stands at the kitchen sink, finishing the supper dishes,
lost in thought as she looks out the window. A darkening
yard. Lightning bugs drift up from the ground beneath the oldest
trees. What happened to the girl she used to be? She doesn’t
recall her slipping away. A whippoorwill sings. A
hoot owl gives up its shivering cry. A mother fox
creeps out, sees that the shadows are falling, and ventures
forth to hunt. She will carry food to her babies
who are already sleeping, far back in the den. A bobcat
stirs, green eyes glaring over the hills as the western
sky purples into complete darkness. My people
on their porches, living in the cool of the day.
They love this place even when they don’t. They have dreams
just like you. But no one ever thinks about that. This is
what it was like when I was a boy, when the world was young
and I believed nothing would ever change. In the gloaming,
in the cool of the day, before I lost my people,
and before I lost my place in the sweet old world.