Night time is when I find the most peace and impetus to create things. It’s when I do most of my writing, paid or otherwise, and work on most of my concept sketches.
I live in a pretty rural part of California. It’s a lovely area– starry at night, filled with birds during the day, and the sunsets are gorgeous. That said, it’s a small, rural town (and was a hell of an adjustment for a woman who grew up on Long Island, a short train ride from NYC). There are cows a ways away, but they aren’t in my line of sight and are generally quiet enough for me to forget about them.
And then night falls, I plant myself on the couch to do things, and it happens.
The distant, haunting sound of eldritch mooing. Ever so slowly creeping closer and closer over the course of the evening.
I don’t know why it’s so loud then, and it seems to come from everywhere, but it’s a hell of a thing to hear in the still of a night. Particularly when one doesn’t expect it. The Brunching Shuttlecocks may have given cows an A in the Book of Ratings, but there’s no denying their ability to crush the average person like so many tasty condiment packets.
I don’t know what the hell kind of lovecraftian horror-bovines decide to set up shop what sounds like immediately outside of the front yard here, but I’m sure as crap not going to find out.
If it isn’t the sound of lowing cattle, it’s the strange yodeling of a coyote pack– a kind of high warbling sound, nowhere approaching the kind of solitary, echoing howls that cartoons and movies taught me to expect.
Really, though, the coyotes only weirded me out in the beginning.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that this part of California’s only weather comes in “fire” or “earthquakes.” So, where I would’ve curled up with a cup of tea, a book, and some music to relax amid the peaceful sounds of rain in New York or Delaware… Now I do it to the soothing, meditative sounds of predatory canines or insomniac monster cattle.
Maybe it’s an acquired taste.