Sunday, November 4, 2007
Nighttime. The beam from the lighthouse sweeps the sky, four sweeps then a pause, four sweeps then a pause, all through the dark, a rhythm of light in the clouds. The dark is full of the nighttime flight of bats, their calls like birdsong, their flight a chasing pattern of hunting. Horses call across the fields, restless in their galloping dreams. A distant dog barks harsh and cathedral bells mark time. Each sound is part of the nighttime song of the sleeping village.