When I was younger, I was much more acquainted with the night. My body and mind tested itself with how many sunrises I could chase, as though watching them paused the effects of time. But at some point, slumber–and the worlds I experienced within dreams–became more valuable.

With age, the night now seems foreign. I’d almost forgot just how magical dusk could be. Awhile back I would play a game before bed, peering out my window to count the stars. I never got higher than seven. The ambient light reflecting from my small prairie city simply too strong to properly showcase the wonder of the universe above. But now with a second (comparatively desolate) place to call home, it is easy to count entire galaxies.

Taking Hampton out late at night in rural Saskatchewan, our back door has nothing but a security light illuminating the immediate space. Everything beyond is a wall of black. The deepest, most dense shade of black I’ve ever seen. It is all-encompassing and unnerving. Especially when you realize there is also no sound. Being an urban dweller, I’m used to the sounds of the city such as traffic, industrial white noise and the occasional wails of drug-induced psychosis. But there is never, ever the sound of nothingness. It is both the most beautiful and haunting thing.

As I stare into the void, I feel it could swallow me whole. It’s impossible to see my hand in front of my face, yet I sense something out there. There is life under cloak of darkness hunting and being hunted. Through heightened senses, I try to catch a branch break or the subtle bristle of the tall grass parting to ensure my dog doesn’t become the latter. Up above, a perfectly preserved sky consisting of millions of twinkling lights reaffirms our existence and provides solace from the shadows.

In Coronach at 1:12am on a Friday night, this is the world that reintroduced itself to me.