I have never loved the night so much as I do now.
It is a necessary renewal for me, but not from sleep. Rather, it is the quiet and the calm that I need to recover from the day.
I never took notice before of how the wind slows into the coming dark, or how the clouds move across the night sky, gliding through the glow of the moon like steam. Or how the stars shine so quietly, winking with the wisdom of a million years gone by.
The dark is not ominous like it was in youth. Its only mystery is why it is not more occupied. It feels like a well-kept secret, these late hours. Unlike those slumbering around me, I stay awake to dream.
As dusk gives way to the night the crepusculars take over the fading world and it begins to feel as if I should retreat indoors. Every hoot of an owl or yip of coyote used to chase me in. But now, while the dreams of neighbors swirl out of their chimneys, I step outside and turn my face to the moon. She sleeps tucked into the daytime sky, pale and watching, waiting for her sister sun to drop over the horizon, so she can take her turn with the light.
The fireflies awaken with the dark and just as the twitters of morning birds announce the coming day, the strobes dance with each other, welcoming the night.
And I stand reverent, unwilling to close my eyes to it.
You have your great grandmother’s talent with words. Emma would be proud of you!
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