hot summer night

I suppose in chilly mid-July we’ll remember these sticky insect-buzzy February nights with a pang of sweet nostalgia. We’ll remember lazing around half-naked and drowsy in the middle of the day and  flinging  the big verandah doors open at dusk to catch the breeze. The bats flying over, silhouetted against an azure sky.  The kids hanging out at the local pool on Friday nights. The smell of chlorine and hot chips from the pool kiosk. The damp springy grass under bare feet. 

Tonight we - D & I, F and F’s friend - went  to town for pizzas. Sat at a table on the footpath. Telling silly 12-year-old boy jokes & playing a game the kids like - guess the famous person ( Soccer players featured heavily. Though F, indoctrinated  in early childhood by Mary Poppins and The Sound Of Music, also came up with Julie Andrews. His friend looked blank) 

After dinner we walked around the dark back streets of our little country town. Through open windows we glimpsed other lives in yellow-lit rooms. The fragrant musky smells of night-blooming plants wafted. Frangipani, millions of stars, infinite blackness. D& I pointed out the Southern Cross to the boys, and showed them how to find south by drawing imaginary intersecting lines in the sky.

Back around the block and down the empty main street. The pavement still warm from the day. Clouds of insects around the street lights. Palm fronds rustling in a tiny breeze.