Pop pop pop poppop pop.

[kyrielle]

It must be almost the Fourth of July, in America, in suburbia. The neighborhood echoes with the periodic sounds of firecrackers, counterpoint to the shikka-shikka of a sprinkler. The air coming through the windows is cool enough now to dispense with the air conditioner, though it was sorely needed earlier. Day has dimmed to night, the sky that deep deep blue that happens right before the very last hint of day slips away. Pop. Pop pop. Shikka-shikka-pop-shikka. Fweeeeeeeeee-pop. Someone got a whistler, I hear.

It's oddly pleasant.