The farmers have bailed and rolled up their hay.
The hay, rolled, sitting in the green grass like sleeping bags abandoned after a giants slumber party.
The bushes are alive and moving with living creatures finding beds for the night.
The branch that just broke in the woods?
A horse and goat munching leaves near a farm.
Hoes and shovels stand tall in their beds, proud of the hard days work they have done.
Green house doors and windows are swung shut. The pumpkins flowers closed tight.
My neighbors chickens 1, 2, 3 perched before dark. I bring down the board to close the run and keep them safe for the night. Their calf lowers to its knees after a day of munching, while it’s mom sways it’s head tearing at some grass too tasty to be left for morning.
Back in my own yard, my own chickens fluff, coo, and swap places finding spots for nine on their roost. They tell me off as I stand there with the door open too long doing head count and just smiling at their strange night rituals.
The snowmobiles sit in the dark by our garage, looking parked and lifeless. But I know that by day they were sea-do’s for the rescue squad saving hurt animals and children abandoned on deserted Islands. That sometimes they have to stay steady so the rescue squad can jump across their backs in high speed emergencies.
Tin bean cans and milk jugs lay damp in the recycling bin after a busy afternoon of feeding thousands at a high end restaurant situated on the patio.
There are no street lights. Just the light norther sky, still clinging to it’s blue while pink and orange dash by.
The gates are all closed.
The trucks still. With gavel wedged between their tire grips.
And the children? Who pumped the peddles of bikes on the street.
Scrubbed behind the ears, brushed, and sprawled out in their beds.
Given over to sleep.
May God watch over you,
as he does them.
Good-night Gunner St.