I didn't make it to the backyard swing until ten this evening. I had intended to go outside at eight, but it was still too warm for my liking. By the time I went out, the temperature had fallen to what felt like the mid-seventies.

As I had done the previous two days, I came outside barefooted. The patio bricks were still warm to the touch.

Initially, I thought it would be nearly pitch dark, which is why I brought my headlamp with me, but after less than a minute, my eyes adjusted and I realized there was no need for an additional light source.

There was plenty of light coming from the neighbor's second-story window and the solar lamps around the yard. The roof and fence basked in the glow of the streetlight in front of the house. And in the night sky hung the moon, which was roughly 48.3% full (by my best guess).

Halfway through, the last of the air conditioners finally fell asleep. In their absence, there wasn't silence. There was only softer sound.

I could actually hear the underlying layer of noise upon which every other layer of noise rested: the constant flow of freeway traffic. I had forgotten how close 101 was to the house. As the crow flies, it's only a half-mile away. Tonight, it sounded much closer.

As a mental exercise, I replaced the sound of engines and tires with the sound of rushing water. Instead of an eight-lane highway, I envisioned a river more than two-hundred-feet wide. Every bridge became a footbridge and every on-ramp and off-ramp became a landing. Every car became a fish and every pothole became a boulder.

It wasn't a difficult exercise to do. It was quite easy to see with my mind's eye, which I attribute to the magic of nighttime. Darkness, even relative darkness, has a way of enhancing one's imagination.

I must admit that I like my secret spot at night. It's quieter and more peaceful. I'll have to visit it again at this time. As for tomorrow, I plan to see what it's like first thing in the morning.