Dusk, especially summer's dusk has always held magic for me. Even our words for this time lost between day and night are beautiful: twilight, gloaming, owllight, le crepuscule (to the French).
Crickets celebrate, Mourning Doves coo and somewhere a baseball game plays on a radio. The opening line of a Robert Frost poem comes to mind, " I have been one acquainted with the night". I choose to take it literally.
When I was a kid I was ambivalent about that light and what it represented. I knew the house would feel stuffy and mundane after the night air: the joy I'd known outside, would dim. But it was nice to be welcomed home too.
All these years later, I still pause before crossing the threshold - tired, often thirsty, but not wanting to break the spell.