Few things in the universe can be as vast as a clear night sky flowing without end, spilling over the distant horizons of the western Kansas prairie. The depth of the universe, and your insignificance within it, become starkly clear in the endless sea of stars – stars so thick that they almost feel oppressive. Intellectually, we all know that the universe is a pretty big thing, and that our place within it is pretty small, but resting in the cool autumn prairie evening gives you a window into that universe that you just can’t find anywhere else.
At least I haven’t found anyplace else where that window opens itself. As often as I have been on the prairie and felt that window, it still takes my breath away each time that it happens. It feels as though my soul is reaching and digging for some new set of senses – something bigger than sight and sound and smell and touch – with which to connect through this vast window that opens up out there where the sky is big.
Tonight is going to be that sort of a night – a night that The Universe pours itself into my soul through the window of a vast Kansas sky. It isn’t yet dark, but I can feel the window opening around me. The still November air is unseasonably warm at around 50 degrees. Sitting in an open field, resting my back against an ancient wooden fencepost, I find myself listening again for the Voice of The Infinite spoken in the language of the prairie evening as she begins to whisper.
On my lap, my old dog Colin rests his head, sleeping soundly. It has been an afternoon spent in heaven for him, trotting across the prairie looking for birds to point and fetch. We ended up with 3 quail out of 2 coveys, and they will make both breakfast in the morning, and dinner later tonight if I feel like fixing it. His age is showing, as he sleeps deeply after the workout. But then, I suppose that my age shows just as clearly, though in ways that I am not ready to see yet.
Earlier this afternoon, when Colin and I finished our hunting, we stopped by the camper to put the birds in the cooler, and leave the shotgun behind. We walked out to this spot with a nice view of the sunset, and sat quietly as the day began that quiet transformation – watching the day recede while night approaches through evening.
There are whitetail deer now in the prairie and alfalfa around me. They have moved out of their daytime shelters, and have begun to feed. I watched a group of them standing still at the edge of the field – that place where the shelter of a group of trees meets the prairie. They watched there for a while – assuring themselves that there was not danger in the meadow beyond – then one doe stepped out into the field, took several steps, and started to feed. The rest of the group stayed in the cover of the trees and watched, to see if anything took interest in the lone doe feeding in the field. Once convinced that danger was not near, they all moved out into the field, and began to make their way across the prairie grass toward the stand of sweet alfalfa that they love so much.
Such is the way of that daily transformation of day into night. Things happen slowly, and around the edges, one step at a time. If you aren’t paying attention, you can miss those dainty steps that are occurring in that movement from the shelter of daylight into the meadow of the night. If you aren’t paying attention, you look around, and realize that it is almost dark.
One minute you see an open field, then the next it seems that the deer have appeared out of no-place. One minute it is light and comfortable, then next it is nearly dark, and you feel fearful and uneasy at the transformation that occurred while you were not paying attention.
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