It’s late and I’ve been working, since work lately has been sporadic online and it’s been catch as catch can. It’s frustrating at times–often, actually–but it’s what I’ve got and I’m trying to make it work for me.
It’s cooler tonight, so sleep should be more restful than the last couple have been. The frogs are talking down at the lake, and so are the crickets. The smell of fresh-cut grass is in the air, thanks to a neighbor who mowed his yard tonight, and I just heard an owl hooting somewhere close by. It’s peaceful.
I’ve loved the night for as long as I can remember, for its stillness and quiet, the only sounds gentle ones, or gentler ones than the daily noise that fills the air. Sometimes I long for the kind of stillness the nights brought in Canada, when my family would vacation there. It rained often at night, and the sound on the tin roofs of the cabins we sometimes stayed in was a lullaby, a sweet and gentle way to drop off to sleep. Loons would call out on the lake, a mournful sound, full of longing for what, I never knew, a haunting sound I would love to hear again. There were few lights in the camp, other than a couple of pole lights, and the stars were so clear, chips of diamond glittering in the sky–it was a wonderful way for a kid to spend some of those long days of summer vacation, back when the summer seemed endless and there was nothing to do but be a kid. It was pretty great.
My bed is calling me now with a promise of rest and comfort. Right now, though, I’d give just about anything to be back in a cot in a rough little cabin in Canada, listening to the rain dancing on the roof.