The Sounds of Eve

It is nearly 9 p.m. A summery evening. Robins trading solitary, twirling chants. A cat yearning hungrily -- for what? Another cat. The voices of neighbor's children. Broken phrases. Competition medals hung near a bed clanging like wind chimes. A window fan, on the floor. The robins' songs diminish, slow, and then start up again, full-throated. The chair creaks. The tapping of keys. Tires distant on pavement. A slight rumbling in the stomach. A cleansing breath. The slam of a neighbor's falling screen.

Never, anywhere, in any form, will this moment be precisely echoed.

The ephemera of an evening turning into night. In May, a Monday.

It is now. It is here.

And as you read this, it is gone.