place entry #5

I am out tonight under the full moon, peering from behind a birch tree. The birch tree’s curled and peeling bark reminds me of the wallpaper in my hundred year old house. The sky is clear, the moon luminous; beyond the faint city glow lone stars pulse in the blue-black night. The moon is bright enough that the trees throw their shadows across the snow. I strain to hear movement, the scrape of claws on bark or the crunch of hooves on snow, but only register the blood whooshing in my ears, a sort of non-sound sound, like the hum from noiseless stereo speakers, an almost preternatural stillness that allows you to hear the inner functioning of your own human machinery.

The world is a John Muir print, black, white and grey; snow, shadow and moonlight. Winter is minimalist in that way. Winter conceals. The colors of the world seem to hibernate along with the bears, and the wan light leeches away what little vibrancy remains. Last week I came upon a photograph of our yard in the summer--the trees thick with leaves, the technicolor grass, the whole scene messy with life. I stood there with the picture in my hands, dumbfounded. What part of the world is this?

It seems impossible that an animal would break this silence; my own footfalls on the walk out felt like sacrilege. Again this week I approached the pines indirectly, taking the snow-packed path at the edge of the property line, through the cluster of wrist thick poplars. Moonlight pooled in the leafless woods.

I hesitated when I drew near the pines. The space beneath was ink black and undecipherable, devoid of moonlight. I imagined deer bedded down there, curled up like dogs in their hoof scraped beds. I stepped gingerly towards the darkness, my eyes alert for any movement, but the effort left me feeling more oafish and lumbering. Nothing stirred. I stood in the darkened grove. After a few minutes my eyes adjusted. Even so, I felt the urge to be back amidst the moonlight. I plodded on and took up residence behind the thigh-thick birch.

I scan the still woods. To my left I see the orange halo of a far off streetlamp. To the right, my own yellow porch light glows like a lantern. A dog barks. Now that I am still, I hear the Doppler rise and fall of far-off traffic. I imagine this spot in summer; the leafy woods blotting out the streetlights, frogs croaking, birds chirruping, squirrels rustling, mosquitoes hovering in the warm air. The night animals—raccoons, skunks—scurrying about in search of food. Tonight all is still, the world laid bare. Winter can reveal, too. The illusion of my wild five acres shatters like a chunk of ice dropped on the hard ground. I turn and walk back to the house.