Winter Cold Moon
It’s 2:30 a.m. Do you know where your sleep is? I sure don’t. Ironically, I just purchased a product recommended by my physician’s group. It actually worked pretty well, but didn’t quite push me over into the second sleep cycle. I think it will work over time. But. Not tonight.
My body insists on a medieval rhythm, the old sleep cycle of two four hour segments broken up by an hour or so awake. I don’t always get 8 hours but I do get that time in between. Whether I want it or not.
So, I’m communicating with you during the break. Of course, I’m using the laptop, blue light screwing with my something or other, but what the hell? I’m awake.
The quiet of deep night soothes me. Sometimes I wonder why I waste this peaceful time; especially up here on Shadow Mountain with the forest and other mountains around us, all the wild night time critters prowling, but silent. The mind goes wide open, distracted by none of the busy daytime humanness of trucks and cars, phone calls, errands.
I’m using this opportunity in the middle of the night to talk about the sleep I’m not having. I get that it’s ironic, too. So, from the dark, in the Rocky Mountains, I’ll stop all this irony and go back to bed.
We have entered a long tunnel, dark at its core, though there may be a faint light faraway. This tunnel is the first two years of a Trumpist America. Perhaps it has a sign, somewhere near the entrance: Chamber of Horrors, Fun House, or Hall of Mirrors. It is a Disneyland populated not with Mickey Mouse or Goofy, but the spectre of starvation, a ghoul of no medical care, a banshee of Twitter posts. No one knows what to expect on this first ride through the politics with no name, the policies with no shame.
