Nature Blog Post 7

Here Comes the Night Time

            You notice it first by the stasis—movement stills. Dimension fades—only the surface of a tree, a rock. These are the dimming lights at the movie theatre. Now the show—twenty minute spectacle of sun, in fantastic Technicolor.

            Tonight, the sun has a soundtrack—from my iPod, percussion thumps. A celebration. Thank you, sun. And she lays down the red carpet to thunderous applause. Good night, sun.

            I begin to walk. From street light to street light, I begin to grin. I no longer have to see—what a relief.

              This is the world as it is without human eyes observing it.

            If I let the nighttime fear dissipate, close my eyes, the world comes alive again; I hear the sound of insects rustling, feel the chill of late autumn air creeping under my hat, smell the rain-soaked earth.

            The moon and stars begin their ballet. I walk toward the gas station, down the hill. All foliage drops away so that the bare curvature of the land is visible, moonlight shyly showing only the surface of things, flash of the country's elbow, thigh.

            Jenna and I want beer. There is no other way to say this. West Virginia is different from Pennsylvania in that the liquor laws are much less stringent; West Virginia is wonderful. If I want beer on, say, a Sunday at 7PM, well, all I need to do is walk a half mile to the gas station.

            I hand the cashier ten dollars, receive change, walk out. The weight of the bottles up the hill—their own challenge and reward.


            Share a walk and then a drink with me, would you?