On the threshold



As the long days of summer slide into autumn and the sun rises further and further south, the moon rises higher in the night sky. These are not the dark, drizzly, daring nights of winter but like the days, warm and in between and magical. Cricket songs still ring and the croak of barn owls echo across the moonlit forest. Hunting nighthawks hoot and reply across the rock bluffs and the hundred foot tall fir trees which cloak them.The warm night air is cooled only by the moon’s light which turns the thousand greens of the arboreal rain forest into a singular medium blue highlighted by deep black shadows. Bats almost silently zag through the pools of moonlight in the clearings and black-tailed deer, visible as their blue-white rumps slide from shadow to shadow, crunch quietly though the forbes on the forest floor. The stars are not yet swarming as they will on the clear nights of winter, only the strongest pushing through the glare of the gibbous moon.


I live for the nights too. Standing in a dappled shaft of moonlight I feel as if I have just wakened from a dream, more by the wondrous scene laid before me than the fact that I just have.


One Response to “On the threshold”

  1. ceo Says:

    shear poetry. You should publish. Love you’re creative edge buddy. Smiling your way:)

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