|The last vestiges of night yield|
to the energy of the dawn
I am learning to listen to the night, and in a yurt there are a concert hall of sounds: Some of them subtle and nuanced, others uncompromisingly percussive, while still other might just knock you right out of bed.
First and foremost, the nights are wonderful. I feel safe and secure. But there are sounds, some new and perhaps a little strange, and in the immediacy and the intimacy of a yurt they are different when contrasted to the more traditional house or apartment.
Take the tapping at the window behind my bed. What might be rapping at my chamber plastic? Searching a bit with my flashlight reveals a loose strap end fluttering in the night’s breeze off Mauna Kea. Knock-knock. Come in...
|A view from the crow's nest, aka the dome. I needed to|
re-adjust the dome slightly after the earthquake.