The moon isn't the only sensory delight. The first fireflies of the season are doing their whimsical dance in the high grass across the street. They bring to mind those emergency lights you can wear around your neck, only the lights have a short in their circuitry and are being worn by drunks. Their flight paths are so random you have to marvel that they ever meet their objectives; find one another and make little lightning bugs.
The scent of lilacs, peonies and newly mown fields have mingled with the fresh strawberries I'm consuming. Warm, sweet strawberries. They are organic, earthy and fragrant. All this with a breeze that feels good against my skin. It's nearly a perfect night. Nearly.
The only regret I have for this evening? Experiencing it alone. I promise you the words I have flung together have done very little to capture the beauty available from the comfort of my front porch. Every writer knows that words have their limitations. Good writers marginalize those limitations. My vocabulary seems bereft of meaningful words with which to convey the wonder of the evening. Moment's like these are best shared with a knowing glance, the satisfied sigh you hear that is so genuine the other person doesn't even realize it emanated from them, and someone to ask, "Do you want some ice-cream to go with those strawberries?"