The Ordinary Night

At night, the clouds withdraw from the ridge and settle over the valley, but not until the early moon has set. Then the stars sparkle alone above the gesturing pines, but in the west they fade into the band of pearly haze obscuring the horizon. The air is cool, and has the crisp scent of winter. In the darkness, I hear an owl hooting. The only other sound is the hum of an unfelt breeze in the treetops. I listen for a while, the stars growing brighter as my eyes adjust to the night. The owl hoots, falls silent, hoots again. After a while, there is a rustling in a nearby tree, the sound of wings, a sharp squeal, wings fading away, then only the hum of the pine needles played by the breeze. I think I caught sight of a shadow among the shadows, from the corner of my eye. What transpires in the night is ancient and without words, and the stars seem very small, and the Earth very far away. I go back through my door and close it. The soft, curled cat sleeping in her chair kicks her hind feet twice and softly growls. Her whiskers twitch. I wonder what mice perish in her dreams?

Clear Day

At last, the clouds have settled into the valley as fog, and the mountains lie in bright sunlight. My mind has been swept as clean of thoughts as the sky has been of clouds, and I fall into the vacant blue, lost to all concerns. The power was out for an hour this afternoon. So what? When it came back on, I found that my digital cable box had died. Who cares? The day was almost warm, and the buds of next spring's camellias shone in the soft light. The golden eye of the sun gazed serenely over fields and woods. Nothing can disturb me on these rare days of respite from winter's grey.

The brown leaves of the lilies in the bed at the edge of the yard were beaten down by the weeks of rain, and now lie moldering around the feet of new green leaves which have sprung up with astonishing rapidity. The birds come and peck at the moist earth between them, seeking the worms that are aerating the soil. The bare branches of the trees allow the sunlight to fall on the fresh green lawn, well watered by the rain and released now from the autumnal burden of fallen leaves. January's few warm days reveal a world of continued growth, subdued yet persistent. Even the sourgrass by the front door sports a number of tiny new blossoms, deep pink among the velvety green leaves.

With evening, the slender crescent of the waxing moon appears, and the cooling air is filled with the scent of wood smoke. The sky wraps its blanket of stars over the forest as a northern breeze stirs the pines to join the gurgling streams and the hooting owl in a night song. It is time to close the windows and savor the lamp-lit room, the soft shadows and good books, while the Earth turns the forest through night, toward the slightly less distant dawn.