An Hour Past Midnight
An hour past midnight the coyotes began to howl. A sound made somewhat uncanny by the fact that I was hearing them from my own house nestled in town.
The song of a coyote is familiar to anyone who has slept out under the stars or visited the less populated corners of the world, but this yipping crooning melody is eerily at odds with the normal night sounds of cars and the occasional murmur or passing conversation. It is an unexpected wild in a place of tameness.
Next came the voices of the Sandhill cranes. Prehistoric sounding hoots rising through the balmy night as the birds prepare to make their ascent over the cold mountain pass on their migration north, calling back and forth to each other in their eerie and alien language in the cold light of the stars, the sleeping towns and fields far below. In the dark and quiet of the night, it is easy to imagine these sounds coming not from birds, but from pterodactyls or some other breed of ancient primordial beast moving silently through the air above.
Late nights reality is already elusive, and that paired with these mysterious voices of night creatures had me curled deep in my blankets, sleepily giddy at this glimpse of the outside world.
Things are wild and alive and moving out there in the dark, and it is good to be reminded of it.