March 05 2006, 02:09 AM The Wolves

After an evening of port cities, indirect object pronouns, and tenses my native tongue can only gently hint at, it was time to take exit. It is a time of night around here that limits choice of destination, but of the two we went to one, and they had hot chocolate, so that was alright. They also had potato pancakes: these were not good, but a comfort nonetheless.

I should spend some time in the country, the deep country, so as to better understand the qualities of night. Around here, there are precious few spots that lie in deep shadow. Lights are most everywhere, and even where there are none, there is the glow in the sky. It takes a pretty clear night and absent moon to generate real murk.

In this way it occurs to me that outside at night is an extension to our lives in a way most modern. We can sit by windows and look down the street; across the way a light in a window burns, shadows moving behind the curtain. Sitting here, even with the lamp on I can see things in the streetlight outside. My home is bordered, but the border is fuzzy, extended by what can be sensed beyond it.

Without all this spill, out where the word night yet has meaning, I imagine the psychology is quite different. With the falling of the sun comes ink spilled, allowing one to sit unseen on porches, together with the mystery that the world has become. In colder months the walls of the home become a hard border at night, circumscribing what can be known, security made immediate. Even the windows would betray, mirroring over with the light from the fire.

I do not know enough about it. I imagine it would be quite different.