The thirteenth or fourteenth part of the road trip of the year.

Evening – an owl calls.

The first star.

The sky in the east darkening, in the west it is still blue, almost – but mixing into the night above the escaping orange.

The crickets sing, happy that the days heat has waned.

An outside fire glows and flares occasionally.

Sometimes it makes a sound.

Just to remind the night that it is not alone.

A spark drifts up and disappears; it cannot reach the star though it tries.

The trees become one continuous bush, a solid wall of black that makes the sky above seem blue if you look from one to the other.

A cat sits nearby.

She is cleaning herself, resting on the day’s warmth slowly seeping from the stone where she lies.

A mosquito lands on the arm of the person who dreams.

He kills it.

Nature is beautiful, but it’s cruel.