It is a perfect summer night, and I celebrated it well. Tomorrow I race through the sky, hoping not, like Icarus, to tempt the gods, but tonight I relax and celebrate a little. The family is out of town, and I don't have to negotiate my time and meals.
After dinner, some laundry and a trip to the coffee shop for espresso macchiato and a taste of 70% cacao. The light is just visible as the silhouette of treetops on the western horizon. The waxing crescent is distinct, white on a deep blue canopy. The shop is close by, and so I ride my bike a short way through winding suburban streets without sidewalks. Insects and frogs are interrupted only by the whirring sound of tires on pavement, to my regret. No one is out but a Chinese woman, speaking some dialect (not Cantonese) with a young girl and a toddler. Where does she come from? How did she make it to this little town of Irish and French Canadians? She has the good sense to enjoy a perfect summer night like this one.
The trees are still, and the unearthly howling of the interstate can be heard in the distance. It would be a good night for a pipe and jasmine tea, but I need to pack my clothes. And I am out of good weed. Instead there is St. Andre and Paul Laurent to lighten my task.
People are made for nights like these when the earth complements its bounty with perfectly balanced weather.