Day turns to dusk, slowly darkening sky. Cicadas hidden in the crooks of trees, or nesting next to pine cones, fervently rub their wings together, ribs buckling each time, stridulating ceaselessly in the heavy air.
This is the backdrop for the whispers of our shared prayers. We say it often then, love. The window above the silver sink is slowly fading blue again.
Midnight thunder awakens me:
the voices of our children
move from room to room.
They are like little ghosts, with plans.