Monday September 3, 2007

10:02 p.m. on the porch of the yurt

"I am sitting outside on the porch of the yurt. It is a warm night. The thrum of the night insects is loud. The sky is clear. Stars too numerous to count fill the dome of the heavens. A train rumbles through the night off in the distance. The base note of its engine blends with the clack of its wheels as it goes over an uneven gap in the rails. The air is soft on my skin. The dark silhouettes of the trees around the edge of the field form a forest skyline. The train engineer sounds his whistle as he approaches a road. A late summer moth flies into my light as I write. The air smells clean and dry. I feel a whisper of a breeze on my bare skin. The fireflies that have kept me company most of the summer are gone, leaving the little clearing without their twinkling lights. A solitary frog calls from the woods. Small puffs of cloud drift across the night sky. They create ethereal gray starless holes as they pass by. I am startled by the sound of an apple falling from the tree on the other side of the clearing as it strikes a metal trash can lid left in the grass. A jet plane with lights flashing crosses my field of view. Its sound trails far behind. A horn sounds far off in the distance reminding me of the ocean fog horns of my youth. A breeze I cannot feel stirs the leaves of the poplars behind the yurt. The sound is a whisper in the night. Jet and train gone, no man-made sound reaches my ears. The needles on the branches of the pine trees near me are like black feathers against the lighter blue black of the night sky. A bird utters a single chirp and is silent. A moth flies into my face. Its soft wings whir and kiss my face. I will miss this when the cold comes." milajuno@aol.com