The Witches Hour

The wind rustles the tall grass this afternoon, like it has rustled the tall grass since wind began, since grass began. The flow of eons is felt in the wind and time is tangible then. The sky hangs loose, pale in the evening sunlight, though it will soon become fire in the setting suns glow. The woods will become a black bar on the horizon afterwards, in the night. The moon will be gone tonight, no orb to cast quicksilver upon the ground. The coyote will howl, the night birds will call, and the frogs and insects will cry and scree. Night, the time when Mother Nature wears her mask, when all living things put on their masks: a mask of sleep, a mask to hide the hunted, a mask to hide the face of the hunter. Night is the time of masks.