It is twilight. The oppressive heat of the July day has broken, the air moist and cooler after the day’s storms.
The sky, briefly accented by pink-orange cirrus clouds and a brilliant half-moon, fades to blue-black as I type. Robins sing their evening songs in the distance. Finches chirp from nearby trees. A killdeer protests the invasion of its territory.
In the distance a late American toad adds his high trill to the evensong as fireflies drift up from the grass, signaling to mates who wait on nearby bushes and flowers. The toad is joined by the less melodic, but more powerful, Copes tree frog.
A small breeze stirs the moist air.