When It's Dark

By Peter Bowden

The dark comes softly, as though the world has taken a slow breath and forgotten to let it out. Houses tuck themselves in, and the streets, once so certain with their noise and wheels, seem to hesitate. A single lamp burns at the corner, its glow no larger than a candle cupped against the palm of the night.

And yet, the darkness does not end things. It opens them. Shadows stretch like questions across the yard. The trees whisper, their leaves carrying stories not told in the daylight. A child at the window believes the stars lean closer, listening, waiting for her to speak her secret name. The night asks for nothing but wonder.

When it is dark, the world is both smaller and larger. Smaller in the closeness of quiet rooms, where a clock ticks like a pulse, where two people sit in silence that says more than words. Larger in the boundless reach of sky, the river of stars, the eternity pressing in. Darkness holds both fear and comfort, a reminder that endings are only beginnings dressed in another color.


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