It's late summer in the south.
The firflies have all gone.
The crickets have come out, and the tree frogs sing with them in harmony, like some sort of requiem, they bring the past to the surface. They call up ghosts and dreams, memories living and dead, floating on the smells of the cool, late night summer air.
The firflies have all gone.
The crickets have come out, and the tree frogs sing with them in harmony, like some sort of requiem, they bring the past to the surface. They call up ghosts and dreams, memories living and dead, floating on the smells of the cool, late night summer air.