It’s 3:00am. A full hour before my alarm is set to go off. Sirens blare outside. I am awake. The coyotes begin to howl. Not one or two, but a whole pack. They can’t be but more than 100 feet away. I crawl out of bed and stumble my way to the open window, hoping to catch a glimpse.
Nothing. I see nothing. Pure blackness. I walk downstairs, make some coffee, and take it outside to the deck. Still, I see nothing. The howling has silenced.
I hear the drip of our fountain down below and smell the night air, but I see nothing; yet, I know something is out there. Watching me. Waiting.
Our raccoon population has dwindled over the past couple of weeks. Now, I know why. I grow concerned for our feral cats, Twigs and Flops. They could be in trouble or in their usual spots, guarding the landing for all I know. I can’t see the landing.
My mind drifts. Something is there. I begin thinking about today, my future. Short term. Long term. What am I going to write? What am I going to paint? I don’t know.
Yet something is there. I know it. I just can't see it on the paper. I can’t visualize it on the canvas. I can’t see the landing. Yet, something is there. I know it. I feel it. I look up. Day is breaking. It’s Twigs and Flops. They are in their usual places, guarding the landing, as if they are two sphinx guarding their pharaoh’s soul. They were there the whole time, as was my blog.
Now, it’s time to go see what’s on that canvas. Something’s there.