I don’t usually take night walks alone.
Inclined to join the crisp night air,
I turn off the stove. Dinner will stay warm.
Flashlight in hand, bright stars,
movement in the shrubs sends a shutter, then
the familiar sound of startled deer—two of them,
as they look up to see who’s there, only their dark outlines visible in the darkness.
Usually a scardy cat at night, but this night: determination in each step,
vigilance tucked in my pocket.
I walk and walk down dark, house lined streets. At moments
when I don’t need the flashlight because there are no cars, I
feel as though with each step, I can slip at any moment into an abyss.
And then I wonder, what would it feel like to step into the darkness—disappear and reappear?
With each step,
darkness—the lack of shadows, only dark outlines and moonlight—almost full.
As I amble from the dark and quiet street, I meet the main road, well lit.
Two stars—like eyes—the moon a far removed mouth of surprise, a disconnected face and then the scene changes and the moon is just a moon gliding along the tops of trees—It peeks through, the wind grows stronger and I hear the ocean, only it’s not the ocean, but the palms and other leafy trees mimicking the sound of waves crashing.
I steal one last look at the moon, listen to the waves, and feel the night air on my face, knowing the special connection to the moon—its, his, hers—many shades of emotion.