Various Observations (Not Observances, for those are Holidays) of Things Urban, and Rural and Inbetween RE: Kittery...again

At night sometimes, along the tree-banked ridges and fringes of the massive, dwarfing hills that encircle me, that surround at least two or three sides of my home; there is a great rustling sound emanating from that point, for it is the sounds of the leaves rustled by the night-breezes, the winds that I have often dubbed "night zephyrs." The night zephryrs are strangely intoxicating, thrilling, oddly, impossibly romantic, or at least, in their sound and in the sight of them they are evocative of romantic images, romantic imagery. All is black at night, even those leaves of those trees which are, who are green; yet night paints them a different color, a fiendish, caliginous hue. I have often felt the winds sweep past me, tousling my hair in their strange yet loving way, and sometimes when I am standing by my window, my open window to observe and revel in them and in their odd, minimalistic glory, I have been pushed back a little by their unspoken fury. But it is a quiet, quaint, understated fury, a gentle fury. I have noticed the celeritous shadows, the swift-moving, ever-changing shady patterns, and the lacteal moonlight, shafting, slanting through the interstices in the trees; I have been outside sometimes when this occurs, which in spring and summer, is almost constantly, almost nightly, and I have sat down in a lawn chair that lingers outside (a lawn chair whose underside and rear legs are flaked and caked with bloody rust; but whose topmost and anterior features and angles are utterly without blemish, without error or imperfection), and felt those breezes caress me. It seems sometimes that this experience can only be obtained and only happens in the wilderness, in flatly, patently rural zones; I have often thought that, though it seems impossible, that this phenomenon is confined only to rural places, to campestral places. That urban sectors are rarely disturbed by such phenomena as this, as these nightly zephyrs. But the noctural vibrance, the nightlife of cities, of urban zones, of areas cordoned and crowded with buildings, people, lights, roads and parking lots, this is something entirely different, and outside of that of Boston or perhaps Portland, I have not truly seen nor experienced either, and also I have not been to either city in at least ten years, and at a time and an age when I could not have sampled the nightlife of those respective New England metropolises. I am however quite familiar with the nights at, the nights in, the nights of small cities like Portsmouth, Dover, Newington, Rochester, Somersworth, South Berwick, Kittery and Rye, for in a number of these I have at different times walked. But true urban environments like those of New York or some such place, some such city, these I am even less acquainted with than those of Boston or Portland; thus any and all observations of cities at night that I have to make will involve descriptions of forests and ruralness also. Like how in Portsmouth as you come off of the Route One Bypass and emerge onto Route One/Lafayette Road proper, how off in the distance are the bulking banks of nighted pines, that look black in the distance and in the darkness, and the purplish-black hills that are also tree-studded and indistinct, shapeless yet indescribably beautiful rising masses in the distance. Of course, I have already described things like that, and the bulking shadow of night. I know the sound of cars, both passing by and that of their engines, and the squeal of tires and the hiss and squeal of brakes....all these counterpoint the nocturnal symphony of crickets and brids chirping but unseen, and create a more expansive palette of sound, a larger, fuller, more dissonant orchestra in the night. A night whose shadows of black bulk behind me, behind the world and overfill it, covering all in blackness. Though, indeed, it is not just blackness, the night has many stages, many hues to it. After the sun sets, I have been fortunate enough to glimpse the patterns of colors that illuminate the sky, and they are so much more than just black, for the process is gradual and as i have seen it, at least six different colors light up the sky one at a time before truest, darkest night falls on the unsuspecting land. If I were not so tired and dehydrated now, I would go into further, greater detail, and fully expound upon the whole concept, and detail it down to the last element, the least element; but my fatigue outweighs my literary/diaristic/essayis

tic ambition today, so I must end this-and besides, I lived up to the ideas first mentioned in the title, didn't I? For that title was: "Various Observations: Urban, Suburban and Rural and In Between" and truly, at least with regard to the night, I did that, I outlined much of that. What more (besides perhaps more descriptive entries from me; of me and my weblog) could you ask for?