It is twilight. And at the waking edge of night, a crescent otter surfaces, looping up from its dive. Night chases day like one otter cub chasing another. A pine marten races quicksilver through nearby woods. A barn owl slips between trees.
Twilight plays tricks, foxing sight. The eye, bewildered, struggles to see, but the other senses grow, crescent with the twilight and the moon. The body quiets itself to hear more, and listen… is an anagram of silent. If there is a dawn chorus in spring, there should also be a dusk chorus in autumn, a westward flow of quiet, rolling slowly around the world, ...
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