Temperature of Fear: Attack of the March Hares

The stuff of nightmares.

Before sunrise this morning, there was a briskness which I breathed deeply. It reminded me of fall. Late fall, to be exact. Maybe even post-Halloween, when temperatures surprise you with their lowness. The kinds of temps which, in Tennessee, one doesn’t expect until December. I worried my flannel-shirt-and-hoodie combo wouldn’t be enough, but I also knew the temperature was going to rise at least twenty degrees, and I was only going to be outside from the garage to the car.

When I rounded the back-left corner of my RAV4, moving to the side where no light from the house reaches, a pale sliver of white—incorporeal-seeming in the pre-dawn black—scurried off soundlessly down the grassy alley formed by ours and our neighbor’s fences. It was as if a fuzzy rectangle of moonlight had freed itself from the ground and broken into a full sprint. I decided it must be a rabbit. We know they’ve birthed at least two litters in the backyard, if nests found while mowing count as evidence. Once on a separate night, I walked out into the backyard and was startled, as something apparently alive shot off in a blur from the shadows behind my boys’ swingset. This, too, had to have been a rabbit.

The odd thing, however, is that despite all evidence these dark encounters were with rabbits, I still felt that little rush of a touch with the unknown, because I couldn’t see them well enough to make a positive identification. On both occasions, all I could sense were fast movements and pale blurs. Perhaps a primordial fear of the supernatural tried to overcome my good sense, but I resisted it by telling myself they were only rabbits. Or perhaps the unseasonably cold temperature had me in a spooky frame of mind, mentally somewhere in the vicinity of Halloween, which is a place I tend to hang out anyway.

Alan D. Tucker, MA
Content Writer, Essayist, & Novelist

A Paragraph for the Beginning of November

I turned off my radio because I noticed the tips of the trees were already bare in many places. All across their tops the sunlight was catching them in a way that softened them like the bristles of a baby’s hairbrush, except wavier and stretched wide as the land–an earthwide undulation of soft, orange-pink bristles. And I turned the radio off because I wanted to listen to the trees, which is another way of saying I wanted to listen to nothing, because nature doesn’t talk to us: a leaf falls, and we call it an omen. We pick it up; turn it in our hands; roll our mind over its veins and across its papery flesh behind a dry fingertip, searching and searching for meaning, and when the meaning doesn’t come we create it: this is the sacred work of the artist. And aren’t those bristles lovely.

My Nerudian Ode

I wrote an ode in the style of Pablo Neruda–short lines, straightforward language, celebratory of something.  My ode celebrates the pre-dawn.

 

 

Ode to the Pre-dawn

 

Nightly mystery

and portent of dawn,

both are yours—

a residue of terror,

filtered down and

swirled with hope.

You wrap the back deck

in autumn’s first chill,

and fill the air with

the sharp whir of tree frogs,

thrumming in choral refrain.

You dabble in glows—

my studio lamps,

drawing me downstairs;

the inward glow of coffee’s

aroma and gift of heat;

soda-lit parking lots

silhouetting trunks;

blackish-purple horizon,

washing out toward town,

clouds absorbing city lights

in a sooty, diffuse orange—

backlighting the cedar spires

that rise from the waterway.

The deep, metallic buzz

of neighboring HVAC units

lends a bass rumble

to the pre-dawn chorus.

Stars flicker

in their final watches.

An unseen smoker

hijacks the air.

How can one little cigarette

supplant all other smells?

Back indoors, only I stir,

wrapped in caution,

muffling every sound

so that this fragile,

pre-dawn stillness

does not shatter.

 

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