The Beautiful Evening

A calm walk in the Cozy village

Each windswept day, racing by the window falls into the next. My most wakeful hour always leans closest to midnight. Now, darkness looms at the edges, and a minute later, the sun dips again, and village lights gleam, teaming across the valley one by one.

That star-blanket twinkles in every house and warm yellow glows as my dog and I turn our faces to them out of the gust and chill, imagining a tranquil evening spent beside a crackling fire. There are candles with dancing flames and the scent of oranges and pine. Hot beverages, knitted blankets, cushions, and joyful music fill the nooks and crevices.

We walk along winding streets and narrow lanes with no streetlights. My torch grows dim, and the owls talk about our passing from road to road. We hear their wings flap through the night, and the wind howls.

At times, we stop, and the air smells sweet. We pass the popcorn house, where every night is snack-scented, and the old blacksmiths. Inside, a shadow sits to write. A novel, perhaps. Maybe an adventure lines pages with tales of a life lived long before the steam trains no longer stopped at our station.

We trundle toward the village outskirts, where darkness grows, and night envelopes us with bold arms, snatching us close into the autumn woods where badgers and hedgehogs snuffle and forage; their belly-timber lines the ground as carpets of crack and crunch.

And when we turn back, tree roots loosen their hold from our ankles, setting us free to wander home under the moon.