Scribblings of a Night
Owl
By HJG
Hyper at two a.m. - my backyard is the place to be
Rain threatening the night because it’s April and she can
Winter-stripped branches silhouetted by pinkish skyglow clouds
Me in my tank-top and shorts, frantically scribbling by the reluctant kitchen light
My oldold cat joining me, rarely venturing farther than the patio
Bugs flying kamikaze missions into me, the house, the lights
Secret deer plundering the threadbare woods
Air is sodden, refusing to stir, foreshadowing sleepless summers
Magic happens here, but only late at night when the neighborhood pretends to sleep.
I’ve held rituals here, attempting to purge undesirables
I smoked my first bowl on the patio edge with a lost friend
I stripped myself in August storms, making love to the you-shouldn’t-be-up night
I’ve written countless odes to nature spirits, to spirited nature
I’ve cried a million tears in this introverted haven of midnight.
I live here, in the night-owl time. This precious, private time when the trees breathe,
when rain delivers personal kisses, when the insects are living for their own
existence. This time of writing, of crying, of exchanging secrets, of feeling the Earth
pulsate.
The day
is often a dream.
These nights, I am home.
