Hitbodedut, a Night Scream

Fireflies blink over and between looming cordgrass; shimmering punctuations of light unaware or un-phased of and by the lilts and barks of the marshland’s indwellers. Under clear sky and full moon, the marshland appears in shades of greyed colors and stark black shadows. At once hazy and clear, cordgrass softly rattles from a salt laden breeze, brushing against each other. Close and distant, spring peepers call to each other in startling loud cacophony. Crickets trill in single, thrumming notes - pausing when an owl call pushes past or the lone human in dark clothes walks by in careful, plodding steps.

Asher slowly, cautiously makes way down the soft paths exposed by low tide, the smell of plants, saltwater, and mud ever-present. The coyote howls beyond the trees gives him pause. He listens intently, discerning. Relaxing when no other coyotes joined in chorus or responded - a transient coyote, alone, and far off - he keeps on with the path. Now and again, muddied sand suctions around his aged rubber boots, requiring patient manipulation to release the shoe before continuing on.

The salt marsh is quiet and still while being full of sound and ever-moving. Asher isn’t the only living thing within the marsh, this much was clear, but he is the only human; surrounded by a sea of shuddering grass, visible the paths worn by people and the paths worn by water. All in sight is rendered in greyscale, muted browns, charcoals, and blacks as his adjusted eyes continuously struggle to see the night scene with the precision sunlight affords. He doesn’t dare use a flashlight, either to bring attention to himself or further disturb the wetland’s noisy night visitors - both the heard and yet-to-be-heard.

Katydids squawk at each other in turns in rhythmic layer over crickets’ steady trilling. Asher left the noisy spring peepers behind him, their loud volume soon matching their small frog size. Here is the soft edge, making way to sand connecting salt marsh to ocean. There’s no way to tell if the faint waves were audible or hallucinatory. Still, he knew he found his place: softened sand with straggling grass - belonging to marsh or dune, he couldn’t tell in this moonlight; trees to the side, cordgrass on the other; dune’s slip-face before him at a distance. A space in-between, a space to speak.

Unchallenged wind dampens then carries the insects’ and amphibians’ night sounds. He slowly kneels in the softened ground, exposed under the moon’s unfamiliar brightness; acutely aware of his shadow unlike when he is in a city. Under clear, night sky bursting with stars and heavy moon, he is enveloped and laid bare. Even at a whisper, his voice feels like sharp intrusion over noisy marsh and loud wind.

He spoke to the wind, the grasses, to the seaside goldenrods in the distance, and the trees melted into each others’ shadows. He spoke to the beach heather, the dusty millers, salt spray rose, to the beach plums he left behind. He spoke of his fears, his hurts - the nightmares of surgery and threat of more. He spoke faster, desperate to be heard somehow; the trials of the cold months and the doctors heavy on his chest and tongue. He didn’t know when, but he had raised his voice, the anger and pain and confusion of months past spilling out of him. Secret wishes and hidden thoughts he couldn’t tell another person, because passing the burden of his burden along was too much to bear. But under this immutable sky, before the hidden waves, with lively salt marsh at his back: the heavy words came out as a never-ending rope pulled away by chilled wind, stirring his dark curls towards the dunes where his words were buried alive.

Asher leans forward, cooled hands grasping knees, ankles under him straining and tired. He has no more words to spare. Eyes prick from tears he doesn’t want to share, he releases a loud holler; prolonged, a force from within his chest, bringing an ache to his face as he wavered but never stopped. As lungs tire, the holler shrinks and fades into wisp. He can relax his jaw. He breathes heavily and wearily, lightened and tired and near dizzy.

When the world again comes into focus, when he is once more overwhelmed by the outside and not within, he relaxes - unfolding himself. Asher stretches his long legs before him, pitching knees up to rest bare, thin arms upon. His ankles, relaxed, tremor in relief. No words left, no next step. He listens to the night music, a comfort in familiarity, but the crickets are missing from the disjointed symphony.

He pitches forward; a sudden cracking sound in the air - alarming, unnerving.

In quick succession he twists around, head snapped towards the sound and catching movement. A barn owl, white and tawny, gliding silently following its screech-of-a-flight-call. A ghost, white feathers beacon, moving across and away. The final hiss already left with a rushing breeze, the marsh still was quiet a moment more before resuming its chatter, forgetting already an owl had made its noisy appearance. Asher sits still, stunned and rattled by the primordial, pitched screech that existed all but seconds.

He rises to his feet, exhaustion settling in his muscles and moonlight dusting jutting cheekbones, begins the trek back through the marsh to leave before the tide returns. Ghosts exorcised by way of night’s prayer and snapped awake by way of owl’s cry, it’s time for home and time to find sleep.