Impressions of the Blue Hour

So let it roll like thunder
With its deafening tones
Let it take away
All the words as they’re spoke
Like the muted voice of the rain
Through the blue hour
I can still hear you

(The Blue Hour, Liza Jane)

After an unexpected nap that crept up on me from the pages of the book I was reading earlier this evening, the three cats curled around me like warm balls of bread dough and Duncan snoring patiently at the side of the bed, I slipped on my shoes and took Roo out into the blue hour, that magical time of night when the world is dim and the light uncertain, when you must trust yourself to senses other than your eyes and allow yourself to be vulnerable to poetry and wakeful dreams.

The street was quiet and so I could hear the soft pad of Duncan's footfalls on the grass and the gentle chink of the tag on his collar bouncing with each slow step we took. Duncan seemed to relish it as much as I and watching him––or the dark shape of him ahead of me and low to the ground––I saw that we were aware of the same things, turning our heads in their direction: the crack of a baseball hitting a bat across the street at the park, followed by the cries of the spectators there, and beneath that, the rhythmic cheh-cheh-cheh of the sprinklers winding back and forth on their springs from the golf course. A bat fluttered overhead, its path spastic and clumsy and the swish of its wings as it swooped low past us impetuous and frantic, an echo of the very small and hurried flight of the ducks in the early hours of morning. The day had cooled and the air was filled with countless flying gnats and mosquitoes risen up from the freshly cut and sweet smelling mounds of grass underfoot, their touch against my face and arms as we passed among their populous clouds cobwebs strung along the hallway of this night. A frog cree-cree-creed in the reeds along the back fence and, unsure of our intentions, splashed into the water and was silenced like a sinking stone. The perfume from the Russian Olives was heady and rich and as devoted as the fragrance of a lover calling from bed. But there was also the scent of today's mowings, the fabric softener sheet air blowing softly from the drier vents on the side of the buildings and the sumptuous scent of the evening barbeques. In the fading light of the west, the dark shape and wide wings of an owl caught the last of the light and slipped into the dark tree-lined horizon.

There were countless other things, too, unseen but sensed, caught and hidden in the day's last blue, things only known when you walk among them, a loyal and kind friend at your side, rising up and fading low around us as we passed, rolling away like thunder.