I love watching and listening to my yard preparing for nighttime. As the breezes calm and the wind chimes become vertical, the rest of the yard is still in full activity as dusk falls. The bunny hastens to nibble the latest new growth as he slinks from his shelter beneath the fiddlewood bush near our bedroom window. His little twitching nose and constant wariness keep him a picture of purposeful dining before night happens in earnest.
Tonight I didn’t see any of our active black racers; we have several. I see them winding around the arbor where the trumpet vine curls, waiting to devour one of many lizards who try to keep the insect population in check. The butterflies have had their last nectar of the day, the waterlilies close until the sun bids them open again, and the purple sunset light bathes the flowers and bushes and trees in lavender loveliness.
The birdfeeder dishes finally stop swaying after the last cardinals and woodpeckers have had their fill, and the ground doves and mourning doves have consumed all they can hold prior to their siestas. (Yes, it’s cinqo de Mayo). When darkness falls in earnest, our resident whipporwill will begin his incessant call.
During the daytime, I’ve noticed a sizable frog population. We have at least six that inhabit the front door wreath, snoozing during the daytime, but very much part of the nighttime chorus which begins singing after darkness falls. But the backyard is the center of frog singing. All chorus parts are covered. From the deep bullfrog hrumphs to the soprano treefrog chirps, they’ll all there. We have quite the large population, and if all the tadpoles they’ve left behind in the rain buckets hatch, we’ll look like the Biblical Egypt.
The chur, chur of the raccoons, the bullfrog chorus, and the constant dual-pitched tinnitis in both my ears are the nighttime sounds I hear. They accompany the usual quiet breathing of my husband, who I think can sleep through anything. Occasionally, depending on whether he’s sleeping on his back after his two hip surgeries, he wakes me with his loud snoring. Usually I can turn to my left side and block out all sound; my right ear is deaf except for the constant static. When either of us moves, Zach or Cici, our snuggly cats, begin their purring. Cici’s is a deep-throated constant, while Zach’s is soft and rhythmic.
Just when I get back to sleep, the predawn whipporwill begins, soon followed by the cardinals’ countdowns and the mockingbird and catbird calls. Then I get up for quiet time with the creator of all this beauty, or to write. It’s my favorite time of the day, and I treasure the new mercies of each morning. As Psalm 103 reminds me: “Priase the Lord, I tell myself, and never forget the good things He does for me. He forgives all my sins and heals all my diseases. He ransoms me from death and surrounds me with love and tender mercies.” This evening to morning is just another example of His provision.
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