Matt traced the light curtains from the treetops to the orb in the sky’s center. White flashes radiated down in nanoseconds, but the curtains absorbed new colors. The midsections banded with sparkling magenta, the upper curtains a deep amethyst as the central orb pulsed and swirled with the rich colors of a storm planet.

Across the southern valley the Huron Mountains absorbed the vibrancy, the exposed rock along the ancient ridges like the ribcage of a psychedelic whale. Sentinel stands of the old, uncut hemlocks spiked into the green sky, their silhouettes jagged before the shifting curtains.

Matt stood there with his jaw unhinged, lit up like a rock star. He leaned against the post, both arms resting on the battered piece of wood. He could even read all the symbols and letters visitors had carved into the wood over the years. One in particular caught his attention: The right thing is almost always more difficult. He had no idea who wrote it.

Matt returned his gaze to the Hurons. He’d never seen such an impressive display, not even the late fall of 2005. Not only were the woods aglow at two in the morning, but numerous species of birds had begun to grow restless with the unforeseen exposure. They flittered across the sky in a panic, some in flocks, some alone. The swooshing of wings filled the air. Bats, surprised by the light, set cruise control back to their roosts. The sound of ruffling feathers surprised him from behind. He whirled, and thirty feet above him, a mature bald eagle flapped its way south towards the Huron Mountains. The great bird flew so close Matt glimpsed green reflections in its eyes. He assumed the eagle had been roosting in a nearby tree—perhaps on the edge of the orchard. As the eagle flapped across the southern valley, it dwarfed the other bird silhouettes. Soon the sky was thick with hundreds of birds flying in different directions. Pileated woodpeckers, black cap chickadees, gray jays, ravens, crows, white-breasted nuthatches, turkey vultures, red-tailed hawks, pine warblers, chipping sparrows, you name it they were out there.

None of the birds were calling out or making noise.

It was then Matt felt a sensation he hadn’t in a long time. Many years ago, along the Huron River, he’d slipped on a shelf of slate, then slammed his head on the edge before falling in. His father had been right there, and had saved his life. In between the icy water and the slip, there’d been a vacuous moment of expectant silence. This expectant silence was exactly what he felt as the birds hurried into the night.

Maybe they’re just trying to get to where they’re going without fuss?he thought.

No, no, the little anxiety voice told him, deep in his mind. They aren’t making noise because they don’t want to draw attention, Matthew. They don’t want to be caught.