After the Storm

I step outside to a chorus of July flies, and a night cooled by earlier storms. A long legged spider sits encased in his web on my front porch railing, and water still drips from the overhanging plum branches.

The night is dark as the clouds obscure the moon, and the porch light barely illuminates the damp yard. A green tree frog sits under the light, poised to snare the beetle that climbs, oblivious, inches above him.

I walk across the sand to the edge of the road, and the murky pine forest looms before me. Somewhere nearby, a lone mockingbird sings.

courtesy Robbie Wright