As the days of summer are numbered and night approaches sooner and sooner everyday, it is common for me to reflect upon the eloquence of the season.
Today, instead of going on a run with the morning sun, I went at the dawning of night. Running on a trail at night is sort of like breaking into the cookie jar after being forbidden to do so. It feels slightly naughty, what with the rest of civilization tucking into books and movies and last minute to-do lists. But with the faint scent of mischievous behavior comes the excitement of participating in an abstract event.
The sun was racing down its daily trek; racing faster than I was as I made my way up a meandering and rocky hill. What began as a dusk run quickly turned into a night jog. I didn’t mind. I embraced it, loved it. My dog leapt with joy.
I loved the smells, I loved the palette of colors cascading together, I loved my dog’s glee. But most of all, I loved the bats that flitted and swirled above my head. What majesty there is in a bat that has taken flight. As daytime creatures, we humans rarely witness the wonder of the bat, who paroles the night sky keeping the insect population in check.
There is an elegance and mystery with the bat. Because they surface only in the darkened hours, when we are lucky enough to see them, it is really like trying to read a book over someone’s shoulder: you can only catch glimpses and brief comprehension.
But, oh the bat. What a lovely creature to behold.