Night is not the antithesis of day. It is its complement.
Night is not without light. The moon casts a gentle glow over the world, and the stars twinkle above. Even without those we would have the artificial lights that keep us working far longer than necessary. Fire, street lights, lamps on the desk, small flashlights kept by the bedside so we can hide under the blankets and read. Night has light.
Night is not without life. Crickets chirp far into the darkness, and a thousand lighting bugs flicker and flutter. Moths bounce around street lights and struggle to avoid diving bats that whiz through the air on leathery wings. Animals with glowing eyes creep through the woods, unafraid, for this is their time, when other things are blinded.
Night is not without work. Even as our eyes shut and our bodies go still, the mind continues to run little signals along synapses and play strange and confusing movies of things that happened that day and things that happened long long ago and things that could one day come to pass. It weaves a quilt of memories through our heads, flagging one as very important, another as interesting, the next as not worth saving. The ones still awake work their jobs, policemen sipping cups of coffee and slowly driving along streets that ought to be quiet, but aren’t; cooks and waitresses bustling about, getting food for confused people that wander in from the street-lit darkness; people who have been asleep and suddenly are awake and alive and must go out and see the light and the life and the work.