Nocturnal

June 24 2012

The early risers

have surely fallen

into deep habitual sleep,

doors locked, curtains drawn.

A trusting slumber,

until they waken to see

the glow of dawn

the mist burn off

the cool balm

of day.

But now belongs

to the night people.

We come alive

in the witching time

of subtle shifts

permissiveness.

When the natural order

is brusquely upended,

the things unseen

by occulted heaven.

Not to mention the selfish pleasure

to be out of sync, out of step

with daily life.

Which resumes, first light

all innocent, and bleary-eyed.

But now

in the expectant calm of dusk

the earth seems to spin more slowly,

deadlines on hold

the relentless load

less onerous.

I love how darkness falls

enclosing me,

wrapped in its velvety folds

like soft flannel

on naked skin.

I crave

the weight of cool air,

the density

of silence.

A heavy quilt

holding the world still.

In the desert of night

there is perfect solitude.

Where you can find yourself

lost

or simply disappear.

The way wilderness

is sought out by holy men,

who spend their seven years

unwashed, secluded.

And like them

the denizens of night do not fear being alone

do not feel lonely.

Because the art

of being by yourself

is practiced best in darkness,

when there are few distractions

and no one keeps track

of how many hours have passed

how many more.

When it’s so late

it’s early,

that indeterminate moment

when the dregs of night transform

into the wee small hours

of morning.

Insomniacs suffer

and shift workers struggle

with sleep.

But there is only relief

for night people like me.

Who come alive

when the rest take to bed,

and the world takes its time

to breath.