The gossamer wings of unnameable insects basking in the sunlight against the outside window pane.
The laborious work of a spider weaving a a hammock of what can only be a night times dwelling as assuredly, something or one will come along to disturb it.
The promise of crickets soon enough, the chirp of bats in the blue black sky just above, a glimpse.
In the heat, the night birds call their like and I dream of a house on stilts, canopied by some light- leaved tree.
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