The horizon softens,
light in the trees thickens,
like earth turned, warm and fragrant.
An owl’s call, thin as thread,
spools across the quiet field—
swallowed by the weight of dusk.
We walk as shadows,
bodies merging with the night.
Each step an offering,
a ritual—
re-membering ourselves to the dark.
We pause—
breath carried by a sea of ink
stitched in silver light,
glimpsing a faded memory
of star shimmer, unmuffled
by distant cities’ glow.
We stand—
witnesses to the Milky Way
unfurling, a ribbon of light
binding us to the sky;
and in the vastness, we remember—
Born of stardust,
we’ve wandered beneath fractured light.
Stories, rhythms, paths
once breathed between soil and sky,
now lie lost—
like roots we no longer tend.
We lit the night with our glare,
but shrouded the stars.
Do they forgive us?
Or have they grown weary—
their light dimmed by our neglect?
Listen—linger.
The night is their voice,
and it calls us back.
Cradle its shadows—
learn its language.
The stars will whisper to us again
if we let them.
A bat glides overhead,
its flight a thread between stars,
seeking the same sky we share—
a reminder that the heavens still hold
something worth reaching for.
—
Hilary Hirtle is a passionate writer and storyteller who believes in the transformative power of the written word to guide us toward harmony with the Earth and its rhythms. A lover of nature, Hilary finds joy in reconnecting with and communing with the natural world, allowing its wisdom to shape her creative work. Originally from Ohio, she now resides in Kentucky.
