Read Old Man Scanlon


28 April 2009

Seven o'clock, tail end of a hot April day. Quick survey of the estate: disappointingly scant dandelion crop, but a prodigious carpet of dog violets. Then a Dogfish Head IPA and cryptic crossword, folding chair in the driveway, listening to the wood thrushes. Half mile away, duelling dirt bikes. Peepers take over from thrushes two minutes before sunset. Nearly half an hour after sunset, last of the die-hard bitter-ender robins stops singing. Miraculously, not one mosquito.