It is on occasion, after a day of drenching rain, they come out to play. Rain is music to their earthly souls, a primitive reminder of the percussion of sex, the need to partner-up and get down to some serious love making in the wet grass and dirt as lightning bugs and stars ramp up to flicker.
In the Amish Country, night crawlers are not neighborhood hoodlums. They don’t hang around on street-corners at two o’clock in the morning smoking pot. They aren’t out dealing Meth or accosting senior citizens for some meager amount of cash to buy a hit of crack cocaine. Continue reading