The sky is striped. Hazy orchid pink, apricot orange, and way up in the stratosphere, in the deep crown of the sky, there is a rich, mild blue. Quite coincidentally, I am listening to "Blue Spanish Sky" by Chris Isaak from his 1989 Heart Shaped World as I sit here on my back yard swing in the falling dark. Isn't it strange that I still listen to and love the music I listened to twenty years ago? (On cassette...sinking in...I'm older.) The leaves and branches above me are cutting inky shapes out of the sky's fading color. The constant hum of the air conditioning unit is interrupting the otherwise quiet and cricket-serenaded night. Fireflies are exhibiting twirly dance moves in the tree line that separates my yard from the neighbor's. I could not be more grateful for that tree line, for it blocks the view of an unsightly, long-forsaken childhood treehouse and a dog who should be grateful that I have not purchased a BB gun. The doors of The Hatch are only slightly ajar and there are vertical lines of a warm glow in the dark. I know that painting and hammering awaits me, and I'll go there in a few minutes. There's something about the darker hours of the 24 that God afforded us that throw me into productive mode. I can't explain it, except for the fact that I'm a werewolf.
The sky has faded to a purply grey, Mr. Isaak has gone quiet, I can barely see my keys and it's time for me to get my art on.
