Night Walk - 7/24/2010

• July 24, 2010
• James Skemp
• prose

A white light.

A yellow.

A group of kids, playing a game of basketball, laughing, not keeping score.

Lights illuminating plants, a woman straightening her's in a newly purchased house, one she may not have been able to enjoy before.

It was Ray Bradbury, I believe, who wrote of a man who walked at night, and before being arrested for doing so, thought of the people sitting inside, their faces illuminated only by the light of a television. But there's something about a dark room, flickering with that changing light. Calming? Relaxing? It's the sign of the known. No matter what they might be watching - a movie, a sports game, a sitcom - it's familar, a common bond.

Light shining from the basement windows, from the second floor, but the first floor is dark. Is the basement full of work, or play? Has it been forgotten?

Light creeping out through the top of a curtain, blocked for a moment in regular beats. Is the ceiling fan wood? Painted?

A late night visitor, staying for only a moment before going back to their truck.

A rabbit seen, staring, as two others bounce away. The third follows. Another shortly thereafter. It too decides to leave.

People passed, given a nod and a smile. A younger couple, pushing a stroller. Safe to meet their eyes. But other than the eye contact and allowing for room to pass - for some reason it seemed he'd step in front, but he did the right thing - nothing.

Another light, a soft yellow light, comes from above blinds. It's a kitchen light. I know because I turned it on, knowing it would be dark when I got back. A cat, probably lazing somewhere, but awake. She greats me.