A little night music

The curtain lifted. The scent of earth and lavender wafted past me. I hadn't noticed before, but someone had left the window sash up. Now that I was comfortably in bed, the sounds of cars seem amplified as they pass on the road, and their whooshing rides the cross-draft through my bedroom toward the peepers in the backyard.

For a moment, I consider getting up to slide the window to its most silent position, buttoning up the house to keep the evening chill off my neck.

I'm still considering this when the wind howls, rattling the screens in the window tracks and dragging in a fresh scent. It's not unappealing, but it's something I can't quite identify. The breeze also carries to me the laughter of coyotes somewhere in the distance.

I have lost all desire to shutter this symphony.

Tired's warmth creeps under the covers with me, allowing the night sounds a channel into my mind where consciousness can dissolve into watery dreams. This band – Canis Latrans -- plays raucously into the night. I can't tell how many of their voices are singing in harmony, but the song rolls and tumbles with the energy of a litter of youthful Canis Lupus Familiaris.

The dark of my room illuminated all of humankind's progressive imperfections; I imagine a little pack of pups, playing some growing-up games with each other until a warble gives way to a scream. 

This scream startles me out of any desire to sleep. 

At first, I think it is a woman's shriek, and my heart starts to pound, moving up my chest and into my throat. But the utterances have a rhythmic repetition that reassures me they are not human. Most likely, they are the call of the peacocks just over the hill from here.

Up close, peacocks have the guttural sound of a truck horn. They sound alarmed from a distance, almost as if they are repeating the word "help," as it falls on deaf ears.

As I wonder if the coyotes are menacing the magnificent birds, they all fall quiet as if my mere imagination had sent them to their separate corners.

.

In this new silence, the hum of crickets – or katydids, or some other singing member of the family Arthropod that I can not identify by the pitch of its chirp – starts to tune-up.

The insects' tonal regularity – like tinnitus – soothes me as much as the steadiness of a white noise machine comforts my husband. Both drown uncomfortable thoughts quite readily. 

I imagine myself out walking. A crunch of autumn leaves rustling underfoot.

With each step, the chorus of grasshoppers goes silent. They draw their leg bows away from their body cellos and wait for me to pass. This silence created by my appearance in their hall pleases me despite its root in fear and self-preservation. I am human and detached from my long shadow, imagining I have become a virtuosic conductor of nature's music.