Eveningsong

One of those blowsy January days. The wind is turning to onshore. Ants climb the wall near my kitchen sink. The jet boat hums as the party come in from exploring the inlet.
Evening. Bats skim between the trees like dark swallows. The party heads to the beach for sunset, carrying fold up chairs, bottles of champagne, bluetooth speakers. When the sun is gone behind the hills, another car pulls up. How good to see you you're just in time for dinner you timed it well still pulling tugs stilling tugging dinner's ready oh wow how beautiful was the day.
They asked me to come over for dinner but I declined citing social anxiety. All good people but people I don't know and too many of them and I'm feeling my hermitage on nights like these.
Later, I can hear someone wading in the water. Swans fly overhead, chattering, gossiping. Always they fly to the east in the evening. Along the bottom track, a four wheel drive churns through the deep sand. Seams of cicadas took up a nocturnal chant as the car's lights threaded through the reeds. A Landcruiser then, thumping with Wonderwall by Oasis, drives past my gate up to the house next door. The locals, no doubt attracted to the visiting party. Someone goes out to meet them, to deter them. I can hear their voices in the dark. Then they turn the music up again and drive away.
An owlet nightjar calls her coordinates on her nightly hunt. A frog crashes across the marri leaves and becomes snared in the light of my head lamp. It's tiny and fat and mottled gold. Please don't eat me, the frog pleads with huge black eyes. Please leave, I tell the frog. That tiger snake will be here soon.