Wednesday, August 17, 2005

Middle of the Night

August 17, 2005

It is the middle of the night, a place I sometimes find myself, troubled with fears of fleeting time, with truth that will face me when the world wakes and phones ring and dates pass and the deep cold returns to these mountains and a man had better be ready for it. These are the thoughts that bring me to this chair and this pen in the middle of this late summer night. The baby is restless as well, we are so close the two of us that my sleeplessness unsettles him, not the rustling sounds I make moving through the cabin to scratch the biscuit box for something sweet, but my very nature, and here in the middle of tonight my nature is keenly awake. Outside the window inches from my head I hear an owl calling and another answering, hooting in the hollow darkness, spreading news of the night. The crickets’ chirp is sharp and rolls through the room and pounds my brain. There is no silence here, only cautious stillness.


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