the time of the bat

It's Sunday evening and a crescent moon hangs above the mountains that are darkening but have not yet gone black. The mockingbirds are still agitated and have not yet gone silent.
Everything west of the mountains is covered by a marine layer, but my sky is a pure silver blue. As always, the low clouds try to get over Santa Rosa, but dissipate -- leaving the sky open for me to contemplate the moon.
As the sky and mountains darken the moon brightens and the breeze freshens. Suddenly, all of the birds go silent as if by some signal beyond the range of human perception. At the same moment, the landscape lights go on. Interesting, isn't it? The photosensor on the lighting system is set at the same sensitivity as the birds'.
I can just make out the dark side of the moon, a grayer ellipse against the blue-gray sky. One lone bat flits about high and higher, momentarily coming between me and the moon. It's the time of the bat, and the coyote, and the owl hunting on blunted silent wings. It's the time for poets and dreamers and layabout semi-retired school principals to rest their tired bones, drink a glass of wine, and wonder...