Lookin’ Out My Backdoor
I sit on the balcony as daylight succumbs to the evening, slowly like a melodramatic Western stuntman faking a bad death. The bay turns metallic blue and the south breeze gives up, going out with a whimper. Seagulls scurry on last minute errands as light fades from truth to shadows, interrupting only for a garish red display on clouds no one would believe anyway.

The moon is first quarter, growing more dominant. It's scattered light bounces on the fading ripples of water. Walt Anderson called this time "the magic hour." Framed now only in silhouettes I watch the hummingbirds enjoy last call. The frogs start in earnest:

"Come on baby, come on baby. I'm all that"

My wife and I designed this house. I insisted on the big porch. My Mom sat on it after it was built and said, “Your Granddaddy would have liked this porch.”

Having spent many a magic hour with my Grandfather on his porch, I agreed. Mom, why do you think I built it this way?