Michigan weather is never uninteresting. We’ve received a good amount of snow; yet, when I peer through the window the wee hours of the night, everything out there is enveloped in a blanket of thick mist—and it’s softly, almost invisibly, raining! What an irresistible lure! I snatch my umbrella and venture out to walk up and down our street in the dark.
The mist-coated air swirls gently. Hannah Park is a series of vague outlines. I hear occasional muffled quacks; the thick air mutes these sounds as ducks, half asleep, drift on the swift-moving river past a white, tree-naked world. Grinning, I decide that quacking helps to keep everyone together, as ducky reference points have all but vanished.
There is no sound; even the cars are asleep. The moon, mimicked by frosted street lamps, bathes everything in an icy halo, intricately highlighting wet, jet-black trees and shrubs. Structures gleam. I walk slowly, my cleated boots biting into the slick snow. Rod Serling is my silent, invisible companion.
The dead of night seems devoid of life—but wait! Just ahead, movement disturbs the fog. Three fat, bandit-marked raccoons emerge from the mist and stroll toward me, holding things. They rear up: six little eyes skewer me, the intruder. I feel caught out, like a trespasser, or a peeping Tom. They don’t move—or even blink. I know what they’re thinking. (Why is this human wandering around in the sleet-rainy dark, disturbing our peace?)
One ‘coon is clutching a half-wrapped parcel of something edible; the papered item brings to mind fish-and-chips, a favorite takeaway in England, which is usually enveloped in yesterday’s newspaper headlines. It seems I’ve interrupted their scavenging trip.
After a bit, I say, tentatively, “Hello, there.” The greeting breaks the spell; they lower themselves to waddle slowly down into Hannah Park with their stuff, never once looking back. I’ve been dismissed.
Whose trash has been lightened?
These guys are stealthy; I never heard them coming until they’d suddenly materialized. ‘Strangers in the night, exchanging glances…’ Sinatra’s voice winds around my neurons as I carry on.
This deep-night dimension, infrequently explored by humans, is the Moonlight Zone. Those who venture into it are susceptible to a sort of otherworldly enchantment. Night life moves to a different rhythm, and experiences its own kinds of triumphs and tragedies, ignored by oblivious day-treaders. In the wee hours anything can happen. The rules are different. Alien. We two-legged creatures are irrelevant.
This softer, darker stratum has smoothly adapted to civilization’s changes, using landscape alterations and human discard habits to further its own ends. The lessons are simpler. Food is life. Inattention invites oblivion. Careless mice are prey for silent owls; raccoons scout alley trash bins or fish along the shallows; sleepy trout stay in the river’s deeper middle, hoping to avoid them; furtive cats slink delicately along snowy walks, intrigued by potential menu choices in a world etched in white.
I am a spellbound stranger in a strange land…
The mist-coated air swirls gently. Hannah Park is a series of vague outlines. I hear occasional muffled quacks; the thick air mutes these sounds as ducks, half asleep, drift on the swift-moving river past a white, tree-naked world. Grinning, I decide that quacking helps to keep everyone together, as ducky reference points have all but vanished.
There is no sound; even the cars are asleep. The moon, mimicked by frosted street lamps, bathes everything in an icy halo, intricately highlighting wet, jet-black trees and shrubs. Structures gleam. I walk slowly, my cleated boots biting into the slick snow. Rod Serling is my silent, invisible companion.
The dead of night seems devoid of life—but wait! Just ahead, movement disturbs the fog. Three fat, bandit-marked raccoons emerge from the mist and stroll toward me, holding things. They rear up: six little eyes skewer me, the intruder. I feel caught out, like a trespasser, or a peeping Tom. They don’t move—or even blink. I know what they’re thinking. (Why is this human wandering around in the sleet-rainy dark, disturbing our peace?)
One ‘coon is clutching a half-wrapped parcel of something edible; the papered item brings to mind fish-and-chips, a favorite takeaway in England, which is usually enveloped in yesterday’s newspaper headlines. It seems I’ve interrupted their scavenging trip.
After a bit, I say, tentatively, “Hello, there.” The greeting breaks the spell; they lower themselves to waddle slowly down into Hannah Park with their stuff, never once looking back. I’ve been dismissed.
Whose trash has been lightened?
These guys are stealthy; I never heard them coming until they’d suddenly materialized. ‘Strangers in the night, exchanging glances…’ Sinatra’s voice winds around my neurons as I carry on.
This deep-night dimension, infrequently explored by humans, is the Moonlight Zone. Those who venture into it are susceptible to a sort of otherworldly enchantment. Night life moves to a different rhythm, and experiences its own kinds of triumphs and tragedies, ignored by oblivious day-treaders. In the wee hours anything can happen. The rules are different. Alien. We two-legged creatures are irrelevant.
This softer, darker stratum has smoothly adapted to civilization’s changes, using landscape alterations and human discard habits to further its own ends. The lessons are simpler. Food is life. Inattention invites oblivion. Careless mice are prey for silent owls; raccoons scout alley trash bins or fish along the shallows; sleepy trout stay in the river’s deeper middle, hoping to avoid them; furtive cats slink delicately along snowy walks, intrigued by potential menu choices in a world etched in white.
I am a spellbound stranger in a strange land…