There was a girl who lived next door to me a couple of years ago.  She was beautiful in her own way.  She had long hair that shone a lovely auburn beneath the sunlight and she smiled often.  She dressed immaculately, usually applied her cosmetics moderately, and was never rude or unpleasant to anyone unless provoked.  She was just delightfully different from everyone else I knew at the time.  She had a way about her in public situations, but when she was alone--that's what set her apart in my eyes.  She would often sit on her back porch around suppertime and watch the trees sway in the wind.  She never really smiled during those times.  She was contemplative.  She would sit on the steps with her knees drawn up to her chin and would rock side-to-side.  I would watch her from my seat on a stump in my backyard.  She mystified me. 
    One evening in the early spring, she waved me over.  It was almost dark. We exchanged pleasantries until nightfall and then fell silent as the somber song of the whip-poor-
wills drifted through the hills.
     "Do you ever wonder why the birds sometimes sing at night?"  
    I looked down at the ground and replied, "No.  I never really thought about it."
    "Sometimes it ain't just the whip-poor-wills or the owls, you know?  Sometimes you hear a bird you don't recognize.  It makes the same sound as some of the birds you hear durin' the day, but just sounds a little more. . .mournful maybe."
    "I've heard them," I said.
    "Do you think it means anything?"
    I shook my head.  "Not really,  I don't guess."
    She sighed.  "I don't guess I really do either.  But sometimes I like to think it does.  I sit out here a lot, you know?  It seems like every time I'm feelin' some kinda way, the birds sing.  I think I'd like to believe that it's God's way of reaching His more estranged children.  Like you."
    "I'm not estranged from God."
    She nodded.  "Yes, you are.  You sit outside a lot too.  It's just usually later, after I've done went inside.  I see you out here a lot pacin' the yard, drinkin' and smokin'--you look sad."
     I said nothing.
    "And," she said, "I've seen some of the stuff you write.  It's somber. Sometimes even a little weird and disturbin', to be honest with you. But you can't hide.  Not even there.  I think there's always truth in there someplace. No matter how many characters are there and no matter how you write 'em, they're all you when you get right down to it."
    I nodded solemnly.
    "Maybe the birds are singin' for you tonight.  You should listen.  There's some joy there if you look hard enough.  Sometimes it's like they're condemned to live forever in the dark, but I think their songs are kinda hopeful.  It ain't about what's on the surface.  Look at us.  I mean, we're a fuckin' mess."  She laughed.  "But we smile and we socialize and we front every single day.  Maybe we should both take a lesson from the birds."
    After that, we talked awhile longer, discussed our day, laughed at bad jokes, and then she went inside for the night and left me there in the darkness alone to struggle with my demons and afflictions.  I thought about everything she had said and it had all made sense for the most part.  And I considered my love of the night--I was always more depressed and always felt more alone at night, but I loved it far more than the day.  Perhaps some of us, like the birds, are condemned to eternally reside in the darkness. Or maybe there's a light.
    Maybe there is some flickering hope out there somewhere.  Out in the hills, out in the dark.