Nights I don’t mind the mosquitos out on the back step, mixing the petrol blue of the Riesling with fresh-cut grass, naming constellations (at least those four or five I keep straight).
A cuckoo called, now just the hum of a generation losing control, worried about pronouns, missing the oversized egg in their nest.
Nights I don’t mind the cooling heat, the risk of ticks in the grass. You can feel the earth rotate through your feet, the battle of insects and bats.