The backyard cameras have been busy lately.

Squirrels conducting high speed patrols along the fence line. A cautious raccoon testing the edge of the patio. The usual skunk procession moving through like a striped parade at 2 am. Wind bending the grass in long silver waves under the night vision glow.

But no gnomes.

Not a single pointed hat. Not one stout silhouette frozen mid-scamper. The nature cameras have captured everything else with dutiful clarity, yet the small mythical population appears to have either unionized, relocated, or simply decided to avoid infrared detection.

Even more concerning, the imp has been absent as well.

There was a time when I was certain he darted just beyond the frame. A blur near the compost bin. A suspicious wobble in the bird feeder that could not be blamed entirely on physics. Now the footage plays back with orderly wildlife and perfectly explainable shadows.

It is almost disappointing.

You set up cameras expecting raccoons and deer, of course. But you secretly hope for something else. Something that does not quite fit into a field guide. A flicker of mischief. A flash of red cap vanishing behind the hydrangeas.

Instead, the recordings show honest earthbound creatures doing honest earthbound things. Sniffing. Foraging. Pausing. Wandering off.

Part of me wonders if the gnomes simply disapprove of surveillance culture. Perhaps they prefer their magic undocumented. Perhaps the imp, ever dramatic, refuses to perform for an audience of microchips and timestamp overlays.

Or perhaps winter has driven them underground, curled beneath roots and stones, waiting for warmer evenings to resume their tiny conspiracies.

The cameras continue their silent vigil. The infrared glow pulses each night like a mechanical moon. And still, no sign of pointed hats or impish grins.

The backyard remains enchanted in its own way. Frost on the grass. Crows arguing from the treetops. The soft shuffle of paws across leaf litter.

But I cannot help glancing at the footage each morning, half hoping for that one impossible frame.

Just once.

A small figure, mid-stride.

Proof that something out there is laughing quietly when we are not looking.