Poetry  – 

The Back Yard by Twilight

These are the hours I love the best:
when the golden light of summer has climbed
to the top of the abandoned building next door

and all of the neighborhood
cats have slinked from inside
the woodpile beneath the back porch

and the cicadas and katydids
and gray tree frogs begin advertising
in the cacophonous personals section of the wood lot

and the dog can no longer
find his ball in the tall grass
at the edge of the darkening oaks. . .