Transition

It's after 2 A.M here. Still awake and listening to the sounds outside my window. Particularly the ones that go bump, grunt, and scrape. I creep to the front door and open myself to the wild. It's black as heck out there now so I stand near the door as I allow my eyes a moment of adjustment before I investigate what was outside my bedroom window. Forget it, it can stay there. It grows fainter anyway. I'm walking cautiously through the front yard toward then onto the deck where I look out upon all the forest that I still can't see. There it stands before me, somewhere there, shrouded in secret shadow. I listen to the sound of the woods. Shadow. To be shadow there must be light. Where? I look around. down then up. Up. There is a great bowl above me. It is filled with stars casting their subtle light and creating this flood of shadow. These are not the shadows of summer. They have not the defined drawings of direction and intensity. These are the shadows of a transition, a full and tightly woven shroud drawn by distant lights that beckon the chill.
When Alaska's sky grows clearer still.
The land it feels,
it even knows,
Of Mr. Plumma's
frozen prose.

.