Every now and then, I forget to turn off the lights in the barn. I usually notice just before I go to bed, when the farm’s boundaries seem to have drawn in close. That light makes the barn seem farther away than it is — a distance I’m going to have to travel before I sleep. The weather makes no difference. Neither does the time of year.
Where I grew up, nearly every farm had a yard light that shone all night long. I never understood why. Was it so a sleepless farmer could look out at the tractor ruts or watch empty husks blowing past the corn crib? Was it to guide some wandering stranger? Or was it merely to posit one’s existence, compressed, as those farms were, between a prairie of soil and a prairie of sky?
I always thought those lights impoverished everything they shone on. Far better the farms that lay dark until a light went on in the barn long before dawn, a light shrouded by spider webs in the window frame, a light nearly the color of a Jersey cow’s milk. The cows would have milked themselves at that exact hour, and in that exact order, if they’d been able to and if the humans in charge had overslept.
I don’t have cows, and I don’t have an all-night yard light either. Usually, after turning out that forgotten barn light, I sit on the edge of the tractor bucket for a few minutes and let my eyes adjust to the night outside. City people always notice the darkness here, but it’s never very dark if you wait till your eyes owl out a little. I carry a flashlight, but I leave it off until I check on the chickens. Then I let only the dimmest edge of its luminescence show me the hens. Any more, and they stir on their roosts, looking fearful and resentful all at once.
http://www.nytimes.com/2011/11/15/opinion/a-light-in-the-barn.html?nl=todaysheadlines&emc=tha211