What I Discovered at Twilight

How had I missed it for so long?

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I discovered something last night. After dinner, I took my coffee outside and sat in one of the plastic Adirondack chairs that surround the fire pit. Thought I’d catch up on the day’s news with my phone. I accidentally had left it in the kitchen.

Ugh.

But I was settled, sitting deeply in the Adirondack, surrounded by the woods in which our home is nestled. It was the time of night when the sun has set but still casts what we call twilight — the short time between sunset and dusk (or dawn and sunrise) where rays of sun that are cast from below the horizon reflect off the atmosphere, creating a sense of peace in the stillness.

In that stillness, I noticed something I hadn’t before. As the sun set, birds began to whistle softly. Not daytime chirps. The sounds echoing in the woods were more like lullabies. As if they were the Waltons saying, “Good night, John-boy,” from under the covers, eyes closed.

Eventually, the whistles grew softer, more singular, and more distant. I imagined the birds nesting, curling up to keep watch over eggs and chicks. Settling them in for the night.

In that moment, an orchestral transition took place as the soft songs gave way to symphonic murmurs of crickets and tree frogs taking their…