Up Late

Solstice Eve

It’s quiet. The 1896 ticks away on the bookshelf, like it did when great-grandma rescued it at a yardsale.

The kettle grumbles to temperature in the kitchen.

Outside, in the afternoon, everything seems asleep. The west wind, a regular on the mountain, has rustled off toward the piney thickets Richmond-bound, nestling down like a deer, leaving the set to the juncos and the neighbor’s heat pump kicking on.

The sullen clouds, low in an forever ceiling, still have plenty of flat gray light, but how does everything seem to know the longest night is on the way?

Solstice will occur at 4:21 am, but the pond has been asleep for a while now. The reeds are a stale black.

When I used to play guitar in a bar band, I’d come home drenched in sweat and cigarette smoke. It would turn the same kind of stale towards morning, but before daylight could freshen and revive.

Trudging up the hill, up to warmer air, I round the barn, prodding the round bales snug under roof.

A miracle we even got this with the summer drought.

It feels like a ramble through a sleeping house. Time slows then in the darkness, down to the slow breathing of the world and the ticking of antique clocks.

The basement door squeaks, I grab a few darts, and let fly. One sparks as it hits the concrete floor. Echoes gather in the shadows. Two weeks ago it was a party.

“Sure you want to hang the board in the walkway?” neighbor John asked on that day.

“Oh, it’ll up the ante.” I said, dashing off to do who knows what.

Almost got one in the face later. John laughed, and so did I.

I throw another, it sticks. Triple 7. I head upstairs, and pour a cup.

Everything is sleeping, the middle of a seasonal night.

Waiting, waiting.

As we keep the watch.