In the dead of night Maine winter air is held completely crisp and still. Until unexpectedly, a startling subatomic rumble would echo through the dark, ending by clutching the inside of your throat.
A rabbit cries for its life and loses. When all is quiet again the silence is ten times as deep and opaque. In forest blackness there lurks a claustrophobic dread.
The field stones that were sled over years ago became the low walls that are boundaries, trails and points. With the right aerial view some gigantic cryptic message would show itself. Wouldn’t it be keen if through some higher power a mystery could be solved by backing away and beholding an epiphany in the simple stone lines created by the walls.
Unafraid, I’d go on full moon treks for half the night. The bright light echoed through the bare trees and the snow turned silver under the spherical spotlight. One could easily make out the white flowers and birch. Some stuff was plunged into the inky blackness. I could easily imagine each soul down to the tiniest critter opening one eye as my shoe popped and crunched passed. Then, feeling no threat, closing again slowly.
I became mindful of the night sky while living in Damariscotta. The northern lights are big theater. The planets and stars shifted into their familiar winter pattern. Knowing where they’d be early evening was a relief to someone without much stability. Sitting still long enough and you were certain to be rewarded with a shooting star. Space trash was never so beautiful.
And what a prize at the end of the day when one can feel complete by just lying down, looking up, and get lost in the vertigo.
When your choices are limited completeness is simple.