The night before last I stood out on the deck by the ravine. It was sometime around three in the morning.
The moon was just a sliver, and hidden behind pearl grey cloud–yet the night was silvery bright. And very still. The air glistened. I swear, I could hear the trees breathing and the dew condensing.
I felt enormously clear and powerful. It’s the kind of night that dares a person to extraordinary deeds, to acknowledgement of possibility. It’s the time for murder or sex or oath taking.
I stood there for ten minutes or so. I wasn’t cold. Then the lilac tree stirred in a cat’s lick of air from the ravine, and the night smelt of brine and lilac, and it was simply a beautiful night.
I went to bed and went to sleep and thought no more of it. Then yesterday we had an early evening with a friend. At the end of the evening we said our goodbyes and left the pub. It was about eight o’clock and dusk. The air was grey and gold–and blurred. I blinked a few times, wondering if I’d had more to drink than I’d planned. But, no: the air really was blurred with very fine rain lit by a sinking sun reflected by and filtered through thin pearl cloud. Extraordinary.
So today I’ve been thinking about light and stillness and the moments when will condenses from the air like dew.
Something will come of this.