Sitting out in the backyard of my Mother's 1930's bungelow in Bakersfield, Ca beneath a fabulous full moon, my wilderness ears grope for sounds familiar. The city is just winding down after an unseasonably early stretch of extremly hot weather. It's the middle of May and has been one hundred and three degrees for four days.
The teen mother of two little girls who live next door with her grand parents has hollered her way through the bedtime routine. Her 25year old downs syndrome/ autistic uncle has put his classic rock accompanied by erratic snare drum to rest for the night. The family's well behaved 8 month old Pyranee pup has marauaded about madly in the overflow from the ancient swamp cooler covering her abundant white coat in cool sticky mud. She grins at me through the chain link fence saying "Come on. We can have more adventure than this. " I don't want to tell her of the fun I generally have daily with my big beauty across the open river flats at home in Alaska. She's just invented a really good romp complete with climate control. What she doesn't know won't hurt her.
My hearing gropes madly about the neighborhood. Oddly it's not the crickets I hear. They're there chirping rhythmically. What my ears choose to drop in on is another chirping coming from a multitude of sources. Every rooftop houses a source of cooling the dwelling upon which it rests. Each makes it's own peculiar set of bumps, squeals and gurggles. This is what I zero in on.