Forever, the Nocturnal

There are those who prefer to sleep late, and there are those whom it pleases to rise early.

There are those who retire to their beds as soon as the sun begins to be pulled beneath the mountains or the sea, and there are those who will sit up with the lamps lit until the moon is high overhead and the stars are bright.

And then there are those, the Nocturnal, who will rise with the moon. They wake not to the love songs birds or to the bright pink and orange fervour of a sunrise, but to the dying red and purple furnace of a sunset and the soft drip of water from the eaves. They watch the stars appear, points of pure white light, shining perfect in the lightless atmosphere, and they watch the moon rise white-silver in a blue-black sky.

Not for them the blazing colours of day and sunshine, but the unsullied clarity of stars and moon.

The middle of Spring. The days are bright and warm and lazy with the hum of bees, but the nights are chill and the winds sweep in rough gusts across the empty streets and dark rooftops, carrying with them the distant scents of flowers and of living earth.

The westering sun casts its horizontal beams, not playfully, but steadily, through your window and across the bright wooden floor of your bedroom, deepening all the colours and calling them to life with an inner fire.

Forever, the Nocturnal.