Night Song

Tis dark. Then again that is all I have know my whole life. So why, I ponder, do the other children think it so odd that I do not mind the night, when even the slightest susurrations my large ears catch? Wet moss and slimy wood quickly dampen my jeans, and the cool wisps of mist redden my cheeks into gleeds, but these trifles bother me little; my body, nerves alight and flaming during the sun’s hours, gives way to my keen ears. As the eyes of a city dweller adjust to the night sky, so does my ear to the evening’s song. Soughing trees- whispering, sighing, murmuring - ease the arms that hold an eternally tapping, tapping, tapping cane. Crisp air swells my lungs, and my posture droops as a weary willow.

Hearken! What is that I hear? A fretful shrew perhaps, skittering between the labyrinth of short-tempered straw, swift to settle in her warm burrow. And there! The barking of a branch! What could that be? A prowling predator who demands the thickets to curtsy; who scatters woodland critters as dust from a breath; whose eyes flash in the gloom like polished pennies? Or maybe a beast oozing in devilry, with teeth numerous as brush bristles, a voice so arcane horripilation slithers below my skin. A fighter jet roars past my ear, collecting turbulence as it whizzes around my head, sturdy propellers carrying it faithfully through the frontline of buzzing warriors; a mosquito I reckon, braving the early autumn hoarfrost and famished dragonflies.

Then, like my mother’s dulcet coo when darkness overwhelms me beyond sight, the owl’s eerie hoot. I wonder, I wonder so dearly what flesh gaols this ethereal voice, this melliferous tune so warm and bright in my mind. Is he as free as his voice implies? Does he soar like a dragon bold or glide evasively through the sooty darkness like a terrene specter? I brace my quivering hand on my knees, leaning into the rich ensemble of night, awaiting more. Again, he sounds. Curious, how come his ditty chimes melancholily now, hoot waiflike as fine morning rain, when just yesternight his voice was as earnest as mother’s love? Why does his voice harrow the evening, scoop the giddy from my belly and the buzzing from my bones and leave me cold in its place?

Hissing wind shoves past me and hurries my sweater. Through the field it sweeps with a hollow, voiding moan, upsets the trees into fever, tender murmurs lost to screams and cracklings and deranged titters. The gale wallows amongst the saltating trees, lamenting its worldly woes to an audience of enraged woodlands and the owls who hoots back haughtily. The wind gains vigor, its rage grows and froths and then it’s hurtling toward me, the owl encouraging the beast eagerly. Fear ossifies me. Crisp air in my lungs throttles me; the log I sit on crawls with spiders; the thickets entangle my feet and chain me!

I hasten away and tumbling to the ground I crawl, desperate to evade the gusts slashing hands. The wind licks the heels of my shoes and then engulfs me, howling in my ears until I am deafened with its anguish weeping. I curl into the tear laden grass 'til my fluttering clothes settle and the owl’s temperate hoot echoes serenely once more. What does the wind see that it reflects what is within me? Why does my fear of it feel like casting stones at mirrors? I huff and tremble with from the fear and thrill and dare not move a hair’s width till my war drum heart calms.