Crickets and cicadas chirp in the sweet night air outside my bungalow.
A two-thirds moon hangs pendulous in the cloud-spotted sky.
Tired pups rest on the kitchen floor.
A teenage boy -- my youngest -- plays guitar in the back room.
I sit on the screened porch facing the night forest, eating black cherries, my fingers sticky, remembering my Grandma Blanche, who loved black cherries, too.