Bedtime

Photo by Gouthaman Raveendran on Unsplash

It’s bedtime. That’s the present moment.

The air is soft, light, and warm. But not too warm.

I hear the rumblings of the freeway. I hear Daisy biting a flea somewhere on her body. Now she is licking the area, soothing it perhaps, after a particularly fierce biting session. I hear motorcycles (or one?) on the highway. Have you ever noticed how on warm nights sound carries more? Why is that? That is true tonight. It was a warm day here, but not crazy-hot. Not scary-hot. Thank God.

The city laid out like a blanket at my feet, at the bottom of the hill and spreading, rolling, to the Bay, hums, thrums, a steady chorus of sound, like so many crickets that they all turn into one amalgamated sound. It’s a hum that is comfortable to me.

I feel safe here. I feel safe tonight. I feel secure. I don’t mind that my windows are open — both of my bedroom windows. That late summer night air wafts in, soothing me, soothing my skin. Bringing the scent of night on its tails…what is that scent? It’s fresh, it’s earth, it’s trembling leaves, it’s cricket trills, it’s skunk and asphalt and breeze and sea. It’s the train, thundering by every night in the flatlands, at the most extraordinary times. 3 a.m., usually, blowing its whistle so freely, interminably, forever.

It’s the sound of the planes passing overhead. Where are they going? This particular…