Night is not hostile, but it is end

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 bank. 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 hoase 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.