The porch swing rocks gently as the crickets serenade.  The last light showcases the magnificent Sandia mountain.  There is a very large gnarled tree looking on, its thick limbs crisscrossing in entanglements of a life that could tell of early settlers and farmers and Natives if only I could hear its murmurings over the cicadas.  Ristras line the long wooden porch.  I sit and write as dusk descends.  Another day in our favorite place and time speaks goodnight.

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