Far from the crowded loneliness of the city is the soul-satisfying aloneness of the wild country, now bright to the eyes of the cougar but night-dimmed to the weaker eyes of the man. The one who walks erect is not the one who owns the night.
As patch work clouds slowly drift across the moon they create a slide-show of dragons, of roosters, of chariots, and kittens; of creatures that were, of creatures that are, and of creatures that would be; and ghost ships, riding on an ocean of air, pushed by tattered sails, with cannons poised to defend against a shadowy foe.
Shattering the stillness of the night, a thousand piece orchestra of crickets and katydids performs a symphony of legs, composed millions of years in the past when the planet was new, each movement designed to accompany their fulfillment of an unknown destiny. It is the autumn of the year, and they are in the autumn of their lives, now in great haste to complete the elements of their design.
Midnight is the time of dreams for man, but for mother earth, the time of a million tiny dramas, each acted out in the dark.