Driving down the country road, the engine rattled. It was the middle of the night, and the corn on either side of the car seemed to be growing taller the further down I went. The gravel was white, and led the way. The headlights shone on, but beyond them was inky darkness. I knew I was coming up to the bridge. My heart leapt as the white owl shot up out of the tall grass, its wingspan seemed to be 8 feet wide, it was like an airplane hovering for a moment in slow motion, then gone in an instant. Breathtaking. I drove on, now acutely aware that I was just another animal in nature.
I pulled up to the old blue farmhouse, and the light was on. It glowed like a lightning bug in the middle of the pitch darkness. When I turned off the engine, all was quiet. When I opened the car door, a cacophony of crickets pierced my ears.
Inside, the place was empty. The clock on the wall seemed so loud, as I drifted off to sleep I could have swore it was a gypsy jazz guitarist, scraping on the strings, performing right next to me.