Moments our porch light observes, and we do not:
The American Dagger and White Lichen moths hesitating and fluttering around its dusty glass when I get home from work at 10:33 each night.
Fluttering as in to fly away unsteadily and in confused disappointment after the 60-watt bulb has been extinguished.
The mother raccoon waddling through the slightly-too-long grass of the front yard.
Waddling as in to walk with a clumsy sway up to the gray plastic garbage can to survey its delectable contents and strew stained paper towels and empty cat food cans all across the driveway. Sure, they’re cute until they’re living in your attic.
The tiger irises as they bloom their plum and yellow petals in the gravel flowerbed beside the garage.
Bloom as in to produce blossoms at the moment when my mother and I have waited so many weeks for the olive-pit bulges in their green leaves to become flowers that we have forgotten to look for them that morning in May, and, of course, miss the first blossom or two of the year. Every year. Without fail.
The porch light says nothing.