Late Night

[rejectomorph]

The clouds tonight are no more than a thin haze, just enough to blur the nearly-full moon as it settles westward, where the silhouettes of tall pines pierce the glow. I am struck by the thought that this indistinct quality of the night makes it seem almost as though I had walked into a painting; the vision of some 19th century romantic landscape artist in love with night. It reminds me of how easy it is to project feelings onto the surrounding scene. This, in turn, reminds me that what we see as reality is largely a personal interpretation we each make of the things and events around us.

I notice that very few stars are able to cast their light through this veil of cloud, thin though it is. Suddenly, I imagine the earth spinning away from the rest of the universe, out into a starless void, the galaxies receding and growing faint and, at last, vanishing. Was it the brush of that chill late night breeze against my skin that induced this strange fancy? The crickets are chirping in the brush. They have no answer. I go back into the house with night pulled over it like a blanket.

Comments

[blue-by-you.livejournal.com]

Your entries are poetry. A book of them would be a delight.

[rejectomorph]

Thank you. :-)