If it were not for the crickets there would be total silence around the house. A faint glow of light from it paints an uneven circle de-marking itself from the surrounding ever-threatening darkness. In the windless still of an orange sky, the trees line up shoulder to shoulder, unmoved and frightening in their silhouette.
Cold comfort, behind and under me, in the form of the black, polished rock of the verandah makes for the usual perch. There are toys and footprints scattered barely visible in the glow. Everyone has left and the last of their echoes die into a graceful exit.
There is still not a sound, even the crickets have gone quiet. It is going to be yet another long evening with nothing but the voices in the head for company.