night writing

This is the first night of the year I've opened the window in my little writing room to let the cool air of evening float in.

The delightful buzz of insects makes a chorus, rising, falling, and sometimes stopping completely. The sudden quiet is eerie, a signal I don't understand. Across the gravel road, the high sweet voices of a neighbors' children fade as they go inside.

Years ago, this was my writing habit - in the evening, windows open, letting the lullaby of night fuel the stories. Almost always I had candles, and sometimes a glass of wine, but tonight I'll just write to the night noises and see what comes.

No photo, but if you close your eyes, vision this: a dim Japanese paper-screened lamp by the black rectangle rimmed in white, the buzz of the universe pouring through.


Morning's addendum: I can't help but add that the black rectangle is now blazing with light and buzzing still - the superhighway of bees passes right by my garret. Five different birdsongs mingle with the morning, and while not quite as compelling as the night for writing, there is thankfully a certain creative charm to this time of day.