In Gratitude for the deep blanket of shade that rolls in at day’s end, that unlit kingdom of quiet we call night,

rich with stillness, when all arrests except the yellow-eyed owl perched in a hemlock at forest edge; small-footed mice scurrying between walls; wind. For the slow going under of light—the purpling of mountains into ash, charcoal, slate; the dimming silver sheen of lake. For the blurring of line—of roof, horizon, fence—the crepuscular merging of form, the silent dissolution of shape. What a magic trick! What sleight of hand! Each evening the world lulls, then disappears, leaving as its only trace the cadence of crickets, the low calls of loons, the winsome rustle of late-summer leaves. Let us give thanks for the closing of doors, the drawing of drapes, the pulling over of quilts. A peculiar grace, this necessary shedding of day, of work, of talk, of strife; this relinquishment of clothes, of roles; this putting to sleep of all gesture, all theater, all trade. Reduced to our breathing, we shift, we snore, we dream, we open once more to who we are, remember what we are made of—ocean, stars, rooms—while the white lamp of the moon watches on, pearling the distant slopes of hills.

Abigail Carroll