Even on nights when I am not doing the graveyard shift on The Eagle, sleep eludes me. Often. Usually, even.
In my herb garden, which is hidden from the street, sits a little white bench facing a statue of a smiling Buddha with his fat arms raised high to heaven. 2 am, 3 am, 4 am often find me sitting sleepless on that bench, watching the moon through the fronds of my palm tree as she scoots across the starlit sky.
Sometimes my neighbor's dog will come and join me, and sit on the other side of the fence from me for a while, just a few feet away. We can't see each other but I can hear him walk when he walks up, I can hear him breathe.
Neither of us speak; it's religious moment, and I'm sure he feels the power of the night as well as I do. The plants, the earth. The moon and stars, the sky. The Buddha. And we, the animals, with out hearts bare, and our souls open. Awake.