The bushes in my backyard, green and flowering in warm weather, become gray, drab sprigs in the winter. The birds don’t mind. When moonlight silvers the yard, they crowd deep into the thick twigs, twittering and chirping, discussing the day’s happenings, content to be hidden by darkness and their stubbly cover.
A few wild, forest creatures slip into the yard while humans are asleep. A raccoon, a ‘possum, a skunk waddle in to check out the sunflower seeds scattered on the ground and the water in the bird bath. Night time residents only, these. They are furtive and quiet. The birds know about them, but there is safety in silence.
A silent shadow glides over and all the animals crouch, afraid to move, hoping they are hidden from the owl’s yellow eyes and sharp talons.
The backyard at night in winter is a mysterious place, a strange and wild place that vanishes with the rising of the sun.
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