The night visitor...

Unable to sleep I rose from the comfort of my bed and the warmth of my lover's embrace in the darkness.  Finding my glasses I left the bedroom, wandering aimlessly through the kitchen looking for a midnight snack and listening to the soft chirp of the crickets in the light of the kitchen and I heard it like the soft sound of a ghost slipping down the hallway.

"Hooo-hoo-hoo-hoo”

I somehow felt that his hooting was meant for me and at once, naked, I traveled out the front door into the night with my sword in hand. The cool air clung to my body and the mosquitoes made quiet, buzzing nests in my fur as I let go of my humanity in lumbering steps. Reaching the back yard I could hear the gentle rustling of the night scavengers as they made their way through the darkened underbrush on nightly errands, seemingly oblivious to my presence. A car passed on the road outside the house, air whispering up over the hood and brilliant light streamed on the asphalt and for a moment the animals stood still, the noise familiar and worrisome. I could hear the owl again, his lonely call from the tall pine.

"Hooo-hoo-hoo-hoo”

Setting myself on the cool grass I lay out the sword, a Katana with a pine motif on the tsuba, and bow to it. Taking a knee, I introduce the blade to the night air and set the scabbard aside carefully before coming to height and taking a ready position.

"Hooo-hoo-hoo-hoo”

I run through a short kata, using the owl's forlorn cry to meter out the cuts, down, left, turn, down. When he is done I return to ready and wait. By now the mosquitoes have located their stationary target and an insect airforce is attacking me. They drink from my arms, my legs, my head and even my balls are feeling their sting.

"Hooo-hoo-hoo-hoo”

I dance forward and execute four cuts, slightly out of time with the owl's cry because now I am traveling and cutting and the itching seeks to drive me mad. I take a moment to brush some of them away and then again, take a ready position. This time I anticipate the owl's cry, dancing forward, cut, cut, turn, cut. As I fall back to the ready position, I flick imaginary blood from the blade of my Katana, stoop to the place where I lay the saya and, holding it to my left hip, return the blade to the mouth of it's scabbard with an unnecessary flourish. Above me, somewhere in the pines, the owl leaps free of his perch and with a flutter of his wings heads off into the night, having taken time to observe a naked child dancing across the lawn with a silver talon that was made and not grown and desiring prey that was grown and not made.