Buzzing Tymbals

 A ragged line of silver foam arched overhead, stretching from the leaves of the Sycamores turned golden in the evening, to the setting sun. Behind that northern line, the foam was broken and splotched, receding to the south. Just twenty-four hours earlier, the sky was a quiet sea, lacking a single ripple to give it motion. The calm of above was belied by the reflection on the mirror of the newly filled pond; the surface wrinkled and shimmered under a light hand of breeze as it skimmed across reflected mountain peaks. 

 I stood on the shore of the pond in the midst of a certain serenity, broken only for a moment as the wheels of a fellow rider rolled easily past. Quiet returned in a moment and, sensing it, a cicada's buzzing tymbals sounded somewhere nearby. 

Twenty-four hours later I stood on a court, with a light breeze swirling lazily and fluttering leaves, and gazed along a straight line of net contrasting with a ragged line of silver foam.

If nights three and four of the week are as beneficent as nights one and two, I will be surely satisfied.