Ninth evening: Stranger to the dark

8:30 pm

Overcast and cool tonight, misty and nearly dark. 

Moved through the wet air to my tree, felt called to stand still for a long moment before climbing it, then climbed up when I felt the "go ahead" signal.  In the darkness, I didn't pay any mind to the sappy spots on the branches that I usually try to avoid in the light.  Tonight they were invisible, and I was able to focus simply on the act of climbing rather than thinking about cleaning sap off my clothes or hands.  I climbed more like a child.

Peepers, "ree...ree..." frog (still need to identify), one cricket joined by another later on.  (Do they chirp more on humid nights?  How do their weather-forecasting chirps sound different from one another?) 

In the growing dark, the clusters of pine needles looked soft and fluffy against the weak gray of the clouds, like green fleecing.  Looking up and outward from my branch, I imagined that the needles at the ends of the branches were the shell of an egg, the crisscrossing branches the blood vessels, and me its tiny curled embryo.

The cool, wet air pressed on my skin, reminding me it was there.

I felt very secure in the tree, snug and hidden in its branches.  Cars passed, neighbors arrived home, and no one would have ever known I was there.  I could have stayed all night (maybe tie myself in like Katniss!), safe in the darkness.  I was entirely content to be there.

On the walk back in, though, I noticed how strange our yard looked, how deep and unknown the expanse of my family's yards seemed in the darkness.  The only evenings I have spent outside these past four years have been my sit spot nights.