Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, Vol. 37, November 15, 1929

As I ascend the road, my thoughts become incoherent with the strange beauty of the oncoming night — I exult in wandering alone again over barren country at night-fall; Just before I reach the Chestnut Ridge Road, I turn and behold Buffalo on the far-horizon to the north — a long wide-stretching veil of thousands of stars twinkling in a deep purple haze; a faint ruddy glow on the low-hanging clouds above — a nervous search-light flashing regularly.
I proceed north along the Chestnut Ridge Road toward Orchard Park — The sky to the east — heavily dappled, with random rays of moonlight — has that strange unreal look of the east that belongs to another, prehistoric time — I pass strangely silent farmhouses — some all dark, some with cheerful yellow windows. Sometimes a dog barks — once or twice a machine shoots past iron oil-balls, at repair places in the road with fantastic flames writhing in the rising wind.
As I enter Orchard Park I think of old imaginary towns I thought of when a boy — one tall old mansion with long dreary windows looms up in front of the moon like a spectre —
Charles E. Burchfield, November 15, 1929