The night garden

One night, I went out with Clare to see if we could see the badgers leave their sett. We did not. But we did see and hear – thanks to the bat detector – a lot of common pipistrelles around the farm yard.

It was rather lovely to be out at night. To see the sun set and the stars come out. To be in a field with horses surprised and curious about our presence so late in the evening. To see the trees turn from green to monochrome and fell the chill of deep dusk.

Even my own garden has a different magic after twilight.

The badgers, clearly, could have heard or smelt us. Our force field kept them away.

I keep thinking about the force field. About how to shrink it. And not just by sitting inside a hollow tree.

In my garden, one night, I lay on the path and looked up, hoping to see bats. I have seen and heard them here. I lay still hoping to hear rustling and movement in the tall plants around me. I listened to birds settling to rest. I felt myself quiet and smaller, less obtrusive, than I usually am. I tried to draw in the grasping desire that shoots out of me like the quills of a porcupine.

In his book Wolf Island, David Mech recounts how one night, sleeping outside, he awoke to feel a warm weight on his chest. He raised his head and looked into the shocked face of a snowshoe hare, who immediately fled. Imagine that.

I did not fall asleep and no creatures came to rest on my chest.

Nonetheless, I felt… something… the possibility of my impact being less. The possibility of opening up my hollow place.