Wild at Heart

By day, people are all over the land and water surrounding the Farmhouse, but by late evening they are gone. Miles of forest and coastline are relinquished to their native state, if only for the night. There are places close by I’d bet have not been seen at night by human eyes for hundreds of years. The Earth remains wild at heart.

Darkness comes and the humans sleep, tucked into their houses or campers. Their dogs sleep restlessly, genetically aware they are probably missing out on the action somewhere. Bears sleep. Squirrels sleep. Birds sleep. Deer sleep, but their ears are awake, turning on their heads like radar. The foxes mostly are awake early and then sleep late, as are the skunks and mice. The racoons are up all night, spying on the owls who spy on them back, and they both listen for coyotes on the prowl. Bats do their thing.

In the cities we have lost sight of the stars, a great tragedy. But above the Farmhouse they glitter brightly. Golden Arcturus slides toward Lake Michigan, while Vega shines almost directly overhead. The Big Dipper is ever present, ready to guide mariners north.

The old moon rises late, a fat crescent, and labors with heavy breath low across the southern sky. It has lost the charm of its waxing phases, existing now mostly to warn of the coming dawn. Clouds start to form and obscure patches of sky. In Michigan, the clouds are ever jealous of the moon and stars.

A handful of birds, earliest of risers, announce themselves with a few tentative chirps. Birds, in general, must believe it is their responsibility to awaken the sun. Long before there is a streak of gold in the sky, they have shaken off the night and are chattering away.

Finally, the night itself tires and settles its head eastward to sleep. Humans and dogs stir. The sun rises again and shines through miles of trees, projecting them like shadow puppets on the wall, bony branches swaying in the breeze.