Thinking as Night Comes
The words come smoothly and softly when I'm alone in the dark, sitting on the back step in the twilight, listening for deer in the woods and the sound the bat makes as he searches for mosquitos. In that moment I am a writer, a wordsmith, phrases tumbling like polished stones into the dark shadows around me. How long, I think, how long will it take me to know the outline of these trees against the sky like I've known others? Isn't it strange, that I own this yard and all these trees and yet I couldn't number them if I had to? That's something it seems I should be able to do.
Somehow this darkness is comforting. I don't imagine murder in the shadows like I do when I sit inside in the light. Tonight I feel a part of the dark, and it's not dangerous. It grows around me and folds me into it, and it's the bright, yellow, harsh light inside that seems like it will hurt my eyes.
Somehow this darkness is comforting. I don't imagine murder in the shadows like I do when I sit inside in the light. Tonight I feel a part of the dark, and it's not dangerous. It grows around me and folds me into it, and it's the bright, yellow, harsh light inside that seems like it will hurt my eyes.