One of the many reasons I like this time of year is that it’s when we emerge from our winter burrows and begin to sniff spring. We’re tentative at first; we know how ephemeral, how quirky, spring can be. All this talk about lions and lambs, April showers and May flowers leaves us wondering if any part of spring is reliable. But with each new day, we come closer to the truth of spring: its effervescence, its optimism, its annual promise. And what really seals the spring deal for me is night talking, particularly with friends on the front porch in hushed voices. Makes me feel like we’re all by ourselves in some candle-lit Gothic cathedral, whispering secrets only the angels can hear.
Of course, sometimes the conversation can get a little rowdy; spring has that effect on people. Blame it on the wine, or maybe some medicinal herbs, or just plain old-fashioned human enthusiasm. Whatever or whoever turns up the dial doesn’t really matter; it’s a common enough reaction to the end of a long, cold winter and the beginning of that time of year when we shed all those heavy, dull clothes for something lighter and more colorful, and boots and wool socks for flip-flops or bare feet. Passers-by must wonder: what time do those people go to bed? Don’t they have to work tomorrow? Good questions!
Night talking—the porch variety—comes in many different shapes and sizes, It can be light or heavy; moody or cheerful; funny or serious; secretive or public. Perhaps we think that because it’s dark outside, we need to be more forthcoming than we do in daylight. Facial expressions don’t carry much weight after nightfall, so words have to be more like meteors arcing through the nighttime sky. And touch means more after dark…but you knew that.
I haven’t dabbled much with Artificial Intelligence, but what the heck, I thought, let’s give it a try; might find a nugget. So, I requested a poem about night talking and this is what I got about one second later:
The world is hushed, a somber scene,
As twilight fades and darkness keen
Invades the air, a velvet cloak,
Where secrets sleep, and shadows spoke.
But in this hush, a different sound,
A gentle murmur, soft and profound,
Two voices rise, a whispered plea,
In the quiet space, just you and me.
No need for words, a knowing glance,
A shared emotion, a silent dance,
The night unfolds, a canvas wide,
Where hearts connect, side by side.
The moonbeams dance, a silver stream,
Reflecting thoughts, a waking dream,
In this hushed hour, we find our space,
In the quiet night, a loving embrace.
The stars above, like watchful eyes,
Observe our words, as time flies,
A symphony of shared delight,
In the magic of the silent night.
I was, you might say, gobsmacked. OK, so maybe it’s not Shakespearean or even Nashian, but I did begin to wonder if maybe there was something to this AI magic after all. Here I sit, week after week, year after year, struggling to produce another week’s Musing for you and you and you, but now, all of a sudden, with just the touch of a button or two, out pops a few verses worthy of recitation…to friends…on the porch…late at night.
I’ll be right back.
Jamie Kirkpatrick is a writer and photographer who lives in Chestertown. His work has appeared in the Washington Post, the Baltimore Sun, the Philadelphia Inquirer, the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette, the Washington College Alumni Magazine, and American Cowboy Magazine. His most recent novel, “The Tales of Bismuth; Dispatches from Palestine, 1945-1948” explores the origins of the Arab-Israeli conflict. It is available on Amazon and in local bookstores.
