One of my feral cats is in the back yard chasing airborne nocturnal bugs. He leaps into the darkness and swats, but so far I don't think he's caught any. They are most likely moths, though there could be some crane flies as well. Naturally I can't see them, and probably couldn't have even when my eyes were way better than they are now. I can barely even see the cat, unless it is in one of the shafts of light spilling from my windows. The light isn't bright enough to make anything flying through it visible to me. It must be fun to be a cat on a warm summer night.
The cats have yet to find the cricket who is chirping loudly somewhere very near the back porch. It might be hidden in the thick ground cover that surrounds a few of the rose bushes. It first took root a few years ago, and has now spread itself through about half of the rose bed, though only immediately under the bushes, which is where the water pools when I irrigate them. In fact it is the drying and yellowing of the green leaves of those little plants that tells me when the rose bushes need watering. If the roses are conscious, I'm sure they don't mind sharing a bit of their water with those helpful plants.
The plants in the front yard aren't as lucky. I don't go out there as much as I go out back, so the sourgrass near the front porch in particular is looking pretty bad already. I only noticed today on my way to the store that it is withering and turning brown in spots. In fact I ought to go water it now, while I'm thinking about it. Though the plant will be fortunate indeed if I don't get distracted by something else on my way out there, and forget about them altogether until my next shopping trip. So far, my poor plants suffer more from my creeping dementia than I do.