It’s time to make love, douse the glim;
The fireflies twinkle and dim;
The stars lean together
Like birds of a feather,
And the loin lies down
with the limb.
- Conrad Aiken
The first thing you notice is that there’s so little to notice.
At night, there is absolutely no sound. Wait. Wait. Wait for your city-scarred eardrums to settle down, and you’ll hear the faint, whispery sound of flowing river water, an almost silent susurrance.
On these moonless nights, the dark is almost absolute, except for the star-spangled sky with its faint, glowing galactic band of nebulitic mist. And except for the fireflies. They flash and blink in stuttering staccato, a mysterious visual Morse code.
Nights here in Northwestern Connecticut have a magic all their own. We can see why the Mistress of Sarcasm loves it so, living in this far-stretched neck of the woods.
It’s not without its hazards, of course. Bears roam these parts; the Mistress has spotted at least one in her back yard. And, of course, wherever you find bears, you will inevitably find bedraggled, shit-stained rabbits, mumbling quiet imprecations against the bears.