66 NEBRASKAland • DECEMBER 2015
I
call it the witching hour, when the sun has long sunk and the moon is the only source of light
to illuminate the darkness. In the winter, the wind howls, hounding every bush and tree to
sway and moan, like looming shadows marching in. Any creaking and snapping and bumping
carries in the bitter blast, and the violent rattling of crunchy leaves, stubbornly clinging to
retired limbs or loudly boiling over the forest floor, muffles the world beyond these woods
like padded walls. No witches or goblins are in sight, but the woods do come alive with other
creatures that love the night.
I am sitting on the icy ground, waiting by the bridge at Smith Falls State Park. My eyes and
camera search longingly in the dimming lunar glow. It always amazes me, whether I'm shooting
with a camera or a gun, how animals possess the ghostly ability to appear and disappear,
seemingly springing and flying from thin air – one moment there and the
next, gone.
Jenny Nguyen
January 18, 2014
The Witching Hour
