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Romeo, Michigan. A small rural village an hour north of Detroit. Late August into early September, the air still warm and heavy from the day. A backyard just after sunset, the hum of a hot, muggy night settling in. Crickets start up two backyards over, a steady chorus. The distant cry of a train horn carries across the fields, and a low plane passes overhead, splitting the sky. Neighbors talk somewhere nearby, a dog moves through the yard, a car drifts past. Heading out toward the open athletic fields west of town, frogs surface briefly and the crickets shift — different voices now, deeper into the dark. The village fades behind. Above, a clear sky full of stars and the faint clicks of low-flying bats, sharp little sounds like something gnawing in a far room. Deeper into the woods, a strange rattling insect, then rain easing in, then thunder. Somewhere, an old piano plays a slow dark melody, and scattered AM radio voices drift through the trees. And then the woods thin, and a familiar backyard returns, and the night quiets.

Midnight Trails around Romeo, Michigan Stefanski

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