Two Chairs

Everyone has a bedtime routine. During the summer, this is ours.

Side by side, two chairs sit near the fence, facing the valley and mountain escarpment. The range rises up, an earthquake fault abrupt and final, a wall against a world gone mad on the opposite slope.

Icy drinks on the tray. Citronella candles shoo mosquitoes away with perfume from meager wicks in melting wax. Flames drown and send up wan wisps of incense.

Sunset paints gray clouds into river banks as wild salmon run against a turquoise sky. Soon the sturgeon moon of August blinds us with its perigee of reflected light, undimmed by smoke for the first time in years.

Boys on dirt bikes race down the street, revving motors as if they were elk bellowing for mates. How much speed can they get from those two-stroke steeds, plowing through desert sands, washes, or along thin lines carved between sage and juniper.

Having entirely too much fun! Making too much noise! They'll conquer their world with action while other boys thumb through dungeons full of make-believe challengers. The bikers know where the widow-maker hills are and herds of wild horses still roam.

A bass guitar thrums against the halting beat of a garage band drummer. A callow voice cries the blues he's never felt in his own soul. Partiers laugh or howl hooray! Their revels die away as twilight fades to dusk and voices calm to whispers.

A small cat jumps upon the fence, gazes at us with apprehension, and finally decides to take a chance. She trots within a few feet, but doesn't pause her mission. Will she return and perhaps feel safe enough to stay?

A jagged edge of greenish blue flares behind the black ridge along the range. A flock of siskins flutter overhead escaping some predator invading their nests. In the gloaming, all creatures settle into sleep.

Suddenly a silent flier glides mere inches past our faces. An owl? A bat? I see a large shadow receding through the trees. Tapered wings slip through branches into the dark.

Finally stars emerge. We are grateful no smoke has arrived yet. We are free from COVID lungs and the malaise that infected the town with malice. Suspicions are lifted for now. It's mid-term and angry yammerings are dormant.

We tip glasses to the sacred night, congratulate success in clearing clutter from our garden. Leave the lizards to their stewardship. Give wildlife a chance to thrive in every bush, and celebrate the rising population of butterflies and bees.

Airplanes criss-cross the sky beneath constellations we still recognize. Suddenly, a string of intermittent lights, a Starlink train of satellites, slowly creeps toward the moon, stirring our curiosity. We hope to see it again.

Each evening ends with this ritual, closing the day in silent hush; saying goodnight to the mountains, the neighbors human and wild. Listening to the concert of life while sitting in two chairs.