Last Light of Day

It is the last light of the day, the final song of the late-to-bed-bird ended, the last swoop of the last Swallow and the time when the flitting shadows of bats appear against the sky curtain. This time, before the stars wink on, planets first, then those more faint, is the only time the bats can be seen, in siluette, their choppy flight different from that of the day hunters. The graceful Heron flies to night fishing spots, along the waterfront, where electric lights attract curious water creatures and the harvest is abundant. The Heron is one of the few animals that have gained some advantage from the vast sprawl of Humanity. The Heron flies without hurry, large wings flapping gracefully, occasionally shrieking a croak that sounds like it should have died with the dinosaurs. I have seen them gather by the scores in a field North of town, hulking and sulking, conspiratorily, collectively digesting the nights’ catch, in silence, with a discreet distance between each.
This is the time when the colors of the world take refuge, a long day of dazzling done, melting into the distance and replaced by a thousand shades of gray. This time, when Humans begin their night rituals, of bedtime tea or hot milk, the days’ tools put away and pillows fluffed; of the electric memories of candles and fire and television dreams, I like to walk the dark-end streets.
The picture window glow of the houses seems so inviting and comforting. I feel homeless and alone, a primitive creature, animal without culture, vaguely hungry and tentatively lost. My own memories are pasted to the soles of my feet, held cautiously by shoes that don’t fit or don’t fit well enough. Shoes that resent each step and are too distant.
It is best to walk without aim, taking delight in the stray; furtive freedom of escaped dogs and the silky night-prowl of cats. Of the affinity the empty asphalt parking lot has, finally, a brother to the dark. The eerie light humming from street lamps, lamps that paint the sidewalks gaudily and occasionally. Shadows that borrowed from coal their essence.
Each house a fortress and the twenty odd feet between stretched thin no-man's land. Houses that have become obstacles and stumbling blocks to more than the chill wind. I shiver and wrap my arms around the aimless one. Drawing from the well of ancient thoughts, of stories told and retold in endless cycles, as water that has made the ocean to mountain journey a trillion times. Water that feeds the curiosity and quenches the fires that burn black behind every tree trunk and under each pebble.
I have my closets, too. Not just to hang clothes that I don’t need, nor wear, but with doors closed so that no light intrudes and interrupts the brooding and foreboding. On the dark street the closets can’t follow. They and all my self-help books stay at home, courting a even denser layer of dust. Useless as my thoughts, any thoughts, an hour shy of midnight.