When we were kids, there was one music store in town. Mr. Hagedorn’s shop was right on Main Street, in one of those little, dark and crowded spaces that felt welcoming and homey, like going into someone’s living room. And Mr. Hagedorn was always there, tinkering with something and ready to sell me the clarinet reeds I needed on a fairly regular basis.
It’s midnight in Washington D.C. as I write. It’s pitch black; the sounds of night peepers can be heard between the sounds of sirens and car horns. It’s dark in the woods, and probably a little scary too, for most everything and everyone.
A camera set for night vision illuminates a spot that almost seems to glow.
It’s a large, empty nest, probably bigger than any nest you’ve ever seen.