Our farm is once again blessed with the music of chorus frogs. They came out of hibernation late this year no doubt due to Humptulips County’s persistently cold weather, but they are back and singing with abandon. Last night they were accompanied by heavy rainfall, blessing the darkness with a symphonic collaboration – the singing of the frogs and the percussion of the rain.
We moved to the farm from the city twenty-some years ago for reasons of family: Helen had her parents to take care of and the move took us closer to them, and Peter needed a place to play where his hearing didn’t put him at risk. Both of those reasons are no longer applicable to our continued stay at the farm since Helen’s parents are now gone and Peter is at large in the world, but I can no longer imagine leaving. For our farm is so much closer to life’s true mysteries than was our old urban home with its marvellous overlook of the city and its residents.
Nights at the farm are of the essence of mystery. There is no urban light spill to mask infinity, and the stars shine with abandon when the clouds allow. Constellations reign in the farm’s night sky, and are available for viewing at any time of year. The stars beckon to us by means of sirens’ songs audible to the imagination if not the ear. They sing come-hither songs: songs of voyaging and exploration; songs of wonders beyond ken; songs that pull upon humanity’s imagination and spirit.
Perhaps star song is the most clearly heard in Winter when the air is crystalline pure and its icy breath is redolent of the freezing depths of space. I often step out to our porch on a Winter’s night and simply scan the sky for a few minutes, wondering at the meaning of light that has travelled from a faraway past to grace the moment and speculating about the meaning of infinity. It is in Winter that I most appreciate the grace of my existence, as the profound depth of the skies provides a visual rendering of the scale of its inherent improbability.
But my favorite nighttimes are those of late Spring and Summer, when evening shadows lengthen slowly and finally knit themselves into darkness. There is something greatly soothing about such an evening, especially on those nights with enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes at bay. For it is then that the mystery of life surrounds the watcher with enchantment, as each living thing seeks the night’s salvation in its own particular way and the music of other lives separates itself from humanity’s din.
From the front porch of our house with its views across the fields, joy is in the stretching of shadows against the grassy canvas. It is as if everything capable of producing a shadow desires to display its essence and commingle it with that of night. As shadows interweave and the crickets awake, the resulting nighttime blooms into a mystery of sound and imagination. As the night pulses to the cricket’s song, I can sit bewitched for hours in the rocking chair on our front porch, content with an approximation of the appreciation and understanding of magic that our ancestors once enjoyed .
From our rear patio, contentment comes from watching Helen’s flowers dip and sway in evening’s breezes, petals bending to, or slowly closing against, the night. Insects are in physical evidence, each behaving in a manner evidencing some unfathomable purpose whose sole goal must surely be to sustain life. It is from here that I can best enjoy birdsong as a counterpoint to night’s rising, for the tree-filled hillside behind our house is a roosting spot for many varieties of birds. Once the night has fully descended and silenced them with sleep, their songs are replaced by the more subtle, tuneful rustlings of the larger, flightless animals.
There is surely music in the night if only we will take the time to listen. And sometimes on a cloud shrouded evening such as the last, the music comes not from the stars but from the earth. Regardless of its source, it is the music of wonder and mystery and the stuff of life.
