On the edge of the day

 Just past full, the moon baths the yard in a cool light. Everything is muted, grays and whites are all you can see.

Whip-poor-wills call and respond, like a preacher and his flock. One near, one far. First to the south, then to the north. They call the song of the night, their nocturnal chorus nearly finished. 

Cicadas vie with the crickets for the underlying melody. 

A cacophony of peeps rises nearby. The songs moves down the ditch like a froggy Game of Rumors, each telling his neighbor a secret to be passed to the next. Then the sound rolls back up the ditch to pause and wait for the next round. 

Tree frogs climb the porch drain pipe, then back into the gap at the top and disappear. Their larger companions croak challenges from across the ditch. 

As if uncertain he remember the calls he is tying to imitate, a mockingbird breaks into his first tentative songs. Before long he sings more lustily, proclaiming his territory to all comers. But he never mocks the whip-poor-wills. Perhaps he’s never had the time to learn their song before they settle in to wait for the return of the night.

The moonlight slowly dims. The stars fade from the sky. Thunderheads over the Gulf catch the rose hues of sunrise as they race eastward across the sky. Kissed by the first light of the morning, they ripen to orange then brilliant white, greeting the sun still below the horizon to the creatures below.

Blue jays scold what only they can see, jumping and flitting from tree to tree and branch to branch. Something has invaded their territory and they don’t want it there. A woodpecker taps a rhythm on the telephone pole, while crows head east to meet the sunrise, cawing to their friends in flight. A tenor voice answered by a baritone. A coded conversation understood only amongst their peers.

The grays and whites have transformed into millions of shades of green.  Sprays of pink flowers from the myrtle and the periwinkles populate the yard. Tiny yellow peanut flowers sit on the end of fragile stalks, waiting their turn to open. Cardinals dart from from scrub to maple and back again. Streaks of red in the growing light. 

Dawn. A new days begins.