A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
The moon hangs low. There are bright spots in the sky that could be stars or just approaching airplanes. That single ice cube in my last drink has melted down to a sliver, and the cool air wraps around us.
A backyard. The low chirp of cicadas. The sweet smell of burning wood and wet earth, and a certain hushed silence. All as foreign as a trip to Mars.
The country, where you nod off early and sleep well. Even if the houses are crammed next to each other and some tennis courts lurk a few minutes walk from here, it is not the city. Voices are lower. Concerns evaporate, or at least seem so far away, no longer hanging from our ears like wet noodles. The children run in random circles, spying a raspberry bush or a papery white butterfly. Hands dig deep into pockets as the sun drifts away, searching for a little warmth as that cool, fresh air rolls in.
And then it is time to pack things up, to walk the rooms one last time, as insects circle our heads. We head back, that moon hanging lower and lower in the trees, swollen maybe even pregnant as the traffic trickles past.
Copyright 2021 Marco North.
Marco North is an American writer and photographer who lives in Moscow, Russia.