From Twilight Time as sung by The Platters circa late 1950s.

Heavenly shades of night are falling, it's twilight time

Out of the mist your voice is calling, 'tis twilight time

When purple-colored curtains mark the end of day

I'll hear you, my dear, at twilight time

Winter twilight is a theatrical production lasting about 20-minutes. Its main performer is the fading light of the landscape. Its stage setting, which consists of trees, clouds, passing birds and often snow are almost as important as the light itself. The best seats are standing room only outside, if you can tolerate the cold. There are no ushers and programs. It can be viewed in a limited way from the luxury boxes in one's home but this venue isn't conducive to the at-one-with-it experience outdoors. Times are staggered starting about 4:30 p.m. in December to 7 p.m. in mid March.

Opening my door at twilight in December and going out is like opening a box lined with blue velvet; a momentary snapshot in the sea of space. Any moment, the bright afternoon blue will descend slowly into black until it silently surrounds everything. Stepping out of your house and into the early evening the sky looks black. Look again; the top of the sky is a deep shade of blue and an all-encompassing smoke gray cloud covers everything save for a tea colored break where the sun is setting. It's a mysterious ocean into which one could drift upwards to and float forever.

Out of nowhere come two Canada geese flying awkwardly, soundlessly nudging each other on like an older couple that has stayed out past their bedtime. One evening there are a few mauve streaks in a light blue sky drained of the afternoon's color. Directly overhead, come four honking Canada geese flying toward a half-crescent moon, so bright as to hurt the eye. Behind them, flying in haphazard formation, are 20 more that quickly disappear into the darkening shadows of December. Mere minutes later, twilight falls so fast that the sky is settling into its blue-black phase. A sudden breeze sways a pine tree limb as if it were the sleeve of an overcoat. The face of an icy moon makes the silhouette of a bare, pruned tree quiver with cold.

Street lights glow and light from inside homes brightens everything. The red taillights of cars go by seemingly detached from car bodies. The remains of snow on grass are illuminated by their lights, making it seem as if there is much more snow than has fallen. Off the roadside are thin trees at the entrance to woods. Like pointed teeth they seem to dare even the intrepid to enter.

One afternoon driving home along Pulaski Road, which has farmland on either side for about a mile, it's too early for twilight to start but I notice some signs which tell me that it may be no more than half an hour away. With the sun getting low in the sky, dark leaves, trees and tan grass on the roadside have turned to a surreal sepia toned photo. A telephone pole with the sun's low glow off it has turned black. At that point I realize something; twilight doesn't begin at twilight time. This 20-minute show is a theatrical production whose preparations begin earlier in the day.

The build-up to this performance starts hours earlier in mid-afternoon. Tall trees, their trunks perpetually in shade, are covered with a thin green moss that starts to darken after the sun begins its slow descent. They are part of the carpenter's stage set. Large white clouds, the painter's creation, start to darken at the bottom but remain white on top, finally turning gunmetal gray. By now the starlings have gone to roost save for one that sits, like a dark angel, in a tree next to some hanging, prickly balls which look like Christmas tree decorations. In the distance a red-tailed hawk flies fast in tight circles looking at the ground below for a last vole that may have stayed out too long.

Days later the show's prelude starts in the sky of a sunny and cold afternoon as four crows fly overhead. On the ground, with over a foot of snow in places, a bright red male cardinal stands in stark contrast to the white as it flies into a tree and soon to another branch. Another male cardinal flies from the snow to the tree. An hour later the sky has turned to gunmetal gray with a layer of baby blue below it on the horizon interspersed with long clouds. The color contrast is arresting; the eerily beautiful sky is filled with birds going home together; no stragglers tonight.

The sky grays, the light dims, street lamps come on. Tall pine trees are still in the windless air, their branches seem to slump like a person who is going to sleep standing up. A huge mound of snow whose white is interspersed with gray shades looks like a painting come to life. A streetlight reflects on the thin ice in the road. My pen freezes and won't write. I look up to see if there are any more birds but they are all gone; the sky is too thick with a soup of clouds to see anything. A car turns the corner and stops, its lights like a main spotlight illuminate the suddenly startlingly white snow. This is it; showtime. Take your seats ladies and gentlemen. I turn to my house where the windows are lit so appealingly that my legs take me in while my head wants one more look around the main stage. Tonight I'll view the rest of the performance from my luxury box.