Night is not hostile, but it is enduringly mysterious. The owl flies on silent wings, hoots eerily. The fox is quiet shadow and a sharp hoarse bark. The mouse is a scurry in the grass. The bat is a fluttery presence, nothing more; and the whippoorwill, though we know it is a bird, is primarily an echoing reiteration of a voice that cannot possibly be related even to that of a hoarse crow or an arrogant jay. Yet all of them are a part of the night, as true a part as the stars and the moon and the rustle of restless leaves.
We look and listen,trying to understand. We can accept,but that is as far as we can go; far this is a strange world, a grey, mysterious world, and we are creatures of the day and its bright dimensions.