Long ended, the Bewitching Hour. The birds brought me the news as I slumbered. Their pre-dawn chorus reverberating through my body, chiming like an alarm clock. WAKE UP, I did. Somewhere in the audible distance, a muezzin is chanting out the first Adhan for the Fajr (call to) prayer. The birds and muezzin are competing for ear-space. The birds are closer; I tune in.
Pre-dawn. The 'Violet' Hour. The blackest of violet still blankets the sky. Saturn and Mars are together glowing on the eastern horizon, yet they are barely visible. Through my sleepy eyes, I witness the duo cloaked beneath some violent violet-gray clouds against violet-scape stillness.
Perhaps that was the newsflash the birds were wanting to divulge to me? Or... already 'feeling' the day is to be spectacular, the birds are energizing, awaiting the sun's activation, and I simply am overhearing their velvet-hushed sounds.
Birds are loudest at pre-dawn as they either defend their territory or seek out a mate to hook-up with right after last call. The males, the loudest, belt out the most complex songs in order to attract a female, any female. I blush. Feeling the energy. The heat in this dampness of fresh morning before the sun starts heating up the day. What a waking intimacy!
As dawn fast approaches, silhouettes come into focus. Supernatural entities that crossed over into 'our' world, during The Bewitching Hour, are creeping out through the back door before dawn's reign. Into the margins they recede. I sense their lingering shadows losing their depth into the void kaleidoscope of trees. These 'illegal tenants' have overstayed their welcome; birds acting as boundary-keepers (or bouncers!) escort them away, off the premises. The chaotic sensual-natural energy of the night dissolving, a 'clean slate' before the day's demands is soon arriving.
The changing of the guard. The cacophony of sounds dissenting this reality of the physical world opening up in preparation of the day. What is the day going to hold?
I dissent. Do I dissent? This beautiful clashing transition moving from The Bewitching Hour's darkness to the clarity of dawn's early light.
The dogs living out in the campo, just beyond my windows, they are agitated. They dissent.
I slept through the chaos of the night. Unusual. The birds were simply gossiping about what I had missed, the contagion of the night. Of course. I am safe. Am I safe? Am I safe from the fallout of The Bewitching Hour?
FOMO. FOMO? Am I envious to have missed The Bewitching Hour's peak? The audacity of the birds; the sentinels calling me back to the world (of order) just in time for the light!
I detect a lingering remnant of The Bewitching Hour, though. An ozone still hangs heavy, cutting through the air; the morning breeze has not yet managed to sweep it away. This unspoken language is complicit, with me. I am not just an observer of the night's leftovers; I am an accomplice to them.
I am fluent in this language. This echo. This knowing-ness how a pen full of indigo-ink energy moves across a page during The Bewitching Hour. The birds might be chirping for the morning, but I'm still vibrating at the frequency of the dark, not wishing for the light to sanitize my thoughts.
My nights contain secrets the day-world can't comprehend
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