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.