The night sky is bright tonight, she observed. The late spring rains, stubborn to finally relent and give way to eternally clear skies, cast a comforting, flowing blanket over the city. It was lit up with the reflections of life below. Those retired for the evening, those awakening, those journeying. Above the activity, she could see the lights glimmering in a steady melody.
It was on that night she saw it, balanced above the hillside, steadying its wings against the winds that blew with gusto. The rains brought such movement. The bird that ruled the night was easily visible, soaring above the empty field next to her window, searching for something. Its distinctively flat face could clearly be seen under the brilliance of this night. Were she to step outside, she wouldn’t hear a sound of its presence.
She paused, wide eyed, breath held even though it could not detect her through the window. It was more of out respect than anything else. She did not wish to disturb this precious moment. Its flight was so unlike the birds of the day. It dipped and gloated in a wave of a dance, circling the field with a melody that harmonized to the movement of lights in the distance. Once, twice, thrice, before it spread it wings up and away from balancing on hidden gusts of wind, to disappear behind the tree line.
She paused for a moment, in awe. One, two, three. Then, closing the curtain, she turned away. Back into the restless night, searching for something to pass the time until she could no longer resist the gentle pull of sleep. It was her favorite moment of the day. Comfortable, quiet, alone, and peaceful.
Even more so than the restless unconsciousness that she walked through every night. There the disruptive discomfort simmered lowly, maturing, teasing her with its occasional scent that promised a more robust, well-developed pain as the night travelled on.
Under the moon, discomfort flirted with its rival, exhaustion. With a sweet, intoxicating heaviness she desperately reached for each night, hoping it would shield her from discomfort’s blinding, and greedy displays. This familiar movement carried her through the night, until a beautiful consistent trio firmly wrested exhaustion from her grasp.
Sun, pain –that matured discomfort she hid from all night, and the turning gears of her mind. The noise.
She sighed though, now relaxed. One, two, three.
Sleep, come to me. You are gentle in your song, and warm in your touch. You are quiet at the start, calming the noise. You make room for me. You comfort me. You welcome my thoughts, gently caressing them as they float, or run, or barrel their way into your domain.
Each day, long and short, delayed or condensed, you are there.
She wonders why you tempt her so, only to find pain in your home. Perhaps, perhaps, if only I try, leave an offering I might, struggle I do. Always the same, frustratingly so. Still she hopes.
Tonight may be different. May it be so, with gratitude, she offers.
