It is dusk, almost dark: the fire flies are glowing intermittently as they flit over the wheat stubble; the sun has receded over the horizon leaving only a dull glow of color in the west; in the east the harvest moon is peeping through the blasted tops of beach trees. The mists are rising down in the river bottom and ease like ghostly ships up the creek bed while over to the south choir practice begins. The sonorous bass of the bullfrogs, the vibrant tenor of cicadas; the squawk of water fowl as they rifle, single file up the creek; the bawl of cattle, bedded down on the distant hillside, their clean, white faces, crests, and flanks visible through the ascending vapors from the swale between; the distant barking of a stock dog or the baying of a hound, and the sudden, frightened squeals of pigs as they noisly masticate their corn, vague, black, hulks against the dusty, trampled earth; all blend together in perfect harmony.
Manuscripts: Vol. 9
, Article 23.
Available at: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/manuscripts/vol9/iss3/23