They call it the Witching Hour.
When the birds have long fallen silent.
And the air quakes with apprehension.
When the dark has come; swallowed the light.
The world becomes a savage thing.
But I turn my face to the sky and laugh.
Because I love it.
I love the frozen night.
When even the wind is quiet.
And the very air is waiting.
I love the memory of sunlight that lingers about me.
Even here remains the soul of the old north forest.
Inspiration from http://withrealtoads.blogspot.com