This evening I sat on my porch having a glass of wine. I live in a rare section of New Jersey. I cannot hear the highway, even in the still of night. Most nights I sit on my porch and listen to a nightly choir of insects. This time I was treated to a new nocturnal instrument.
For the first time in 15 years of listening to the nights I heard an owl. Just one. Every thirty seconds or so I'd hear it above the din of the insects. "Hoot, hoot-hoot, hoot."
"What would the great writers think?" I wondered. Did Poe sit on his porch, and upon a raven call think, "Nevermore"? Did Coleridge lean on the stern of a ship in the Atlantic and spy an Albatross perch on the bow? Was Thompson really attacked by bats and manta rays in the desert outside of Barstow?
For the first time in 15 years of listening to the nights I heard an owl. Just one. Every thirty seconds or so I'd hear it above the din of the insects. "Hoot, hoot-hoot, hoot."
"What would the great writers think?" I wondered. Did Poe sit on his porch, and upon a raven call think, "Nevermore"? Did Coleridge lean on the stern of a ship in the Atlantic and spy an Albatross perch on the bow? Was Thompson really attacked by bats and manta rays in the desert outside of Barstow?
I either knew or I didn't. Just like God and abortion and whether the South had the right to rebel. In that moment I knew that I know nothing and may never know anything. What I can say is that for one night that owl wasn't the only one out there singing with the insects.