Darkness claimed the windows, a pure unrelenting blackness of country night. Nearly unrelenting. Out one side, the faint gleam of the yard light could be seen, pushing feebly at the night. The trees shadowed the starlight, and the moon did not show her face. A mere slip of a thing, she hid from eyes that would see her here. The trees swayed in the breeze, their tops singing in the inhuman undulating voice of the wild things, wind against living wood. I could walk among them, unnoticed and small, place my hands on their trunks, steady and unmoving despite the frolics of their canopy, and be completely unremarkable. The earth held them up, gave their roots the purchase the impossibly tall trees needed. I could wander among them, and contemplate my own insignificance. Had I fear of my own passing, I could take out a sharp knife, metals drawn out of the earth and ground into a shape pleasing to man. I could take this edge and set it against the bark and carve my scratchings into the skin of the tree. Without fear of being swatted. Like a moth beating against a window. Unremarked. Should I suppose this means the trees are less than myself? That I can swat a mosquito, but the plant giants are so very different than I that not even hacking them to death can arouse their response? Perhaps I would better spend my time contemplating the place of all things in the world, how the trees provide paper to write on, logs to build with, wood to burn and keep man alive in the winter. How trees grow lush on graves, the bodies of the fallen feeding the net of life all around us.
My thoughts spin slowly and sedate, contemplating trees and stars and darkness, thinking on the breath rolling in and out of my lungs, the faint hunger in my belly prompting thoughts of what I might have to snack on. Dog is outside the house, and as I idly skim over a small corner of the internet, I can hear her collar jingling as she runs up and down beside the house. She passes by the window once, twice. My eyes flit over a blog post, another mention of the brutality of Oakland police to Occupation protestors.
A shiver, of the very air itself. The door I am sitting beside starts shifting in its frame, creaking and then banging. The house groans, and I feel as if I crouch like a mouse as a herd of horses thunder by. I am crouching, laptop snapped shut in my arms, body low to the ground and eyes frantic. I can feel the adrenaline coursing through my blood, my muscles twitching and electric with the ability to move. The floor rocks and trembles under my feet. I scan the air, trying to determine which way to run. Where is the herd of giant horses? What machine could this be? What is falling, over and over?
Before I can fully reason out what to flee from, the shaking stops. The house falls quiet, and the other dog barks once. I stand, eyes wide and limbs trembling. Could that have been….?
I hear the sounds of someone gently stirring in the bed just beyond the room I am currently shivering in. This person is one who is familiar with the area.
“Was… was that an earthquake?” I ask hesitantly. There can be no other explanation for this situation, so far outside of anything I have experienced before.
“Yeah, just a little one. Should be no damage.” The sleepy reply comes back, and all falls still.
A earthquake! I have never experienced an earthquake before, and now that it is over, and nothing has been damaged, and indeed, it is scarcely noticed by the others used to this area. I am thrilled to have been able to experience a small one.
But I feel slightly more wary of the earth, even as I walk about on it’s surface as usual.
Wherever you are, Be There 