In the company of..

A/N: I am often asked why I work graveyard shifts. Trying to capture an event that actually happened.

--oo--
"Anything new..?" Mike called out towards the departing shadowy figure he knew had to be the previous shift.

"Nope, same old same old." Came the reply before the metallic slam. A screeching rumble began the awakening rumble of the engine.

Mike vaguely waves in imitation of a friendly neighbor. The blinding flash of the headlights turns away, and the red taillights soon vanish. Tires crunch noisily along down the lonely gravel road, but fade before long at all.

"Ok.."

For not the first time, Mike clunks his way into the tiny circle of golden light by the door, and breaths in the coolness of the night. He eyes the great swaths of peeling flakes of questionable color on the squares of the windowsills, the proud but sagging portal of a barren wooden door, and finally, the many carded boxes thrown haphazardly about the sole thing that could be remotely considered a piece of furniture.

The ancient planks of the old bench on the porch creak their whining complaints, but the seat holds his weight well enough. Rough veins of wood scratch against the calloused pads of his palms, and he eases himself back. He decides that it is not a comfortable perch, but it will serve for the duration.

He takes in wind and lets his eyes roam watchfully into the surrounding shadows. He pick out up lighted greenery of trees in the enveloping shadows, and he knows from experience it is from the previous guard's car as it makes it way to the highway further along the dirt patch that serves as a road. It was unmarked, and he recalls that almost missed it on the way here.

He hears a chirp of something, so tentative, and Mike is careful to keep still. The rising song of the night bugs begin once the last tree has been swallowed by inky darkness. He slowly leans his elbows onto his knees, and let's his lips thin.

A faint rustling in the distance tickles his ears, and Mike raises his useless gaze. He sees a glowing of innumerable red pinpoints, low to the ground, and holds his breath. This is new. This is new. He thinks, and fingers the nearest box nervously as he hopes those many eyes are not, say, hungry foxes or starving coyotes. He knows cardboard makes a lousy weapon, crumpling in rather than causing harm; however, it feels far better to hold than the tiny blue plastic pen in his hands.

The brightest pair, like of red buttons, emerge from the gloom.

A pop, a hop. A drag of long haunches. Tiny noses incessantly wiggle, testing the air for any danger. Pink, not red, eyes seek the shine above him with a bare tilt of their fuzzy brownish heads that sport twin long ears.

Mike slowly raises his hand from the cardboard in wonder, watching them in careful silence. He knows his mistake when the family of rabbits freeze. With the slight movement, the fragile spell of rodental caution is broken like so much glass.

As one, they all swim back into the black from which they came, leaping and bounding nearly joyfully. A few skirt the halo of dim light in their panic, but scramble away just the same.

Mike grins, and chuckles. He knows he is far from alone on this watch now. Before long, he begins his report, and dull scratching of the paper blends with the music of the night.
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