Sends a frission down your spine doesn't it? The calls echoing off the ridges of the island as evening falls; the hush between the howls.
Much more impressive a title than "The Beagle of Moonrise."
Sadly, that was the prosaic truth. From my position at the border of the park and town, it was Domino I heard- the little guy was baying his heart out from the roof of his dog house as the moon rose over the island's spine.
It could have been coyotes.
I had walked away the listlessness, shedding my agitation even as I shed my gloves, then coat, then iPod, then scarf. Caught up in sticks, my hair too came down. I left my skirted wool coat (gloves in the sleeves) on a co-worker's deck, knowing she was off island for the weekend. The iPod I had pocketed, finally acknowledging that the island itself resists canned music. The scarf stayed in my hands, like a magical object in a fairy tale.
And so it was that, unencumbered, I walked by Moore's Harbor, and into the park. My thoughts were running along the same lines they have been for days now- the plausibility of making a life here. Will I be able to find work, will I be accepted, will I be alone? As the North turns its face from the sun, its denizens can't help but look for alternate sources of warmth. I am no exception. This urge goes beyond libido and the extended hours of moonlight. I want to feed someone, I want someone to be waiting. You know. Other than my cat. Funny longings, coming from a woman who just broke off what should have been a promising relationship. I jilt someone for an island, then moan like the moors when I find myself wandering it alone a week later.
Still, the pleasure of my own company is no small thing, when I get to entertain myself here. No longer distracted by distance, or a housemate, or the learning curve of my job, I can finally pick my head up and look around. If a moon rises over the Western Head, and you are the only one on a beach to watch it, doesn't it still shine as bright? Of course, we know there's a small dog who took note, too.
