Farmhouse

It’s cold up here and the crickets aren’t out yet.

I can’t wait to get up here when it’s hot and sticky, the crickets and cicadas and humming, the grass is slick with dew and the pavement is hot under my feet. I like to take a blanket, double it up and lie under the stars with a bit of marijuana and a pack of cigarettes. Or a few beers and someone to talk to. I like the dead silence. Even more so, I like that rumble of noise the bugs make as they rustle their wings and the echo, the soft slow noise the leaves make as the winds slowly push through the trees. The dew soaks into the double up blanket and my back feels damp and cold.

I need to get out of the city more often. I was born in the country, and when I come up here I feel beautiful and calm. My entire demeanor changes. I joke a lot less. I lie a lot less. I ease into my own skin and squint less. I, perhaps, am slightly quiet, content to spoon on a blanket in the grass on a hill. There is nothing in that scenario that makes me want to tell jokes or fashion lies. I tell the truth, clear as the bright-shiny stars.