As I headed out into the descending twilight, my surroundings were surreal. The temperature was in the high 50s, much warmer than the previous week. It had rained off and on the night before and most of Friday, but it had started to clear a few hours earlier. The setting sun back-lit the streaky cumulus clouds, casting the entire outdoors in a bluish grey. The whole scene had a uniquely beautiful, surreal quality.
Some of the surreal-ness may also have come from my having been awake since 3:00 AM. Insomnia had struck, and, unlike usual, I never did get back to sleep. I didn't feel tired as I rode, but my subconscious did seem to be poking through my awareness.
I passed a neighbor's house. About six crape myrtles stood sentry at the end of the driveway. Having been pruned over a number of seasons, the trees had longish trunks with numerous bare, spiky branches extending skyward. They looked like banshees. I felt a silent scream begin inside.
As I rode the dirt portion of my route, I thought I heard a far-off airplane. Then, I realized it was my tires making a faint whooshing noise in the semi-peanut buttery mud. A few upland chorus frogs sang in puddles of standing water, precursors to the symphonies we'll hear in only a few weeks.
Cows chewed their cud contentedly as I rode by, watching me more out of curiosity than fear. A deer darted across a pasture. In the gathering dusk, I tried to discern the varied colors in a trio of donkeys.
Back on pavement, I passed a giant oak tree, bedecked with mistletoe, silhouetted against the last western light. I'm pretty sure I spied seven druids dancing in seven time.
A few miles later, I turned into my driveway. The sky was just getting dark enough to see the stars that welcomed me home.
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