Insomnia's Gift

[trystinn]

There's something marvelously illicit about 2 a.m. The streets are nearly still as we walk through our neighborhood, Gracie at my side and Libby trailing a few yards back. It's wonderfully quiet, with only the rush of the wind and soft crackles of fog to accompany us. The moon has already set, so the only lights are the dim porch lights and infrequent street lights. Flags are resting, up ahead an ocean breeze blows across the Island creating waves within the fog like figures strolling along a boardwalk. Here at the break of Fall, the sensation is slightly reminiscent of the sound of snowfall in New England. It's oddly more peaceful here, with none of the expectant dangers of winter.

A break in the streetlight above us casts the shadow of a small owl. Libby perks up, the predator lying within goes on alert and she races off to investigate. Thickly furred ears rise on Gracie's head, her body filling with adrenaline. She looks up at me, a soft whine in her throat. I shake my head in negation and her pent up breath releases with complaint. While I sympathize with her, the last thing the neighbors need is a big black dog disturbing their slumber. Libby materializes again at our side, chagrin in her movements. My path takes me down the center of the lane, as there are no sidewalks this far out. Cottontails and night raptors move so subtly in their own rhythms, Libby's soft footpads seem loud in contrast. Along the roadside, Gracie's soft whuffles as she scents the mailboxes until a finger snap brings her swiftly to my side. We reach the crossroads and circle in place, watching the subtle movements of Island night life around us. The wind stills for a moment and now we can hear the sound of cattle off in the distance.

We pass by a neighbor's apple trees, then cat tails, the rush of a dog's movements along a fence. The empty grazing fields in front of us look so barren under the uncertain light. Off investigating, Libby is startled by several sheep, who have come to greet us. The border collie sniffs them suspiciously, muscles bunching in her legs as she considers jumping the fence to herd them. Tongue clicks from me relax her for now, but it's time to head home so we turn and head back. With any luck, the bassets are still napping on the sofa, curled up together. Likely as not, however, they will be sitting at the fence, awaiting our return.

Comments

[wild-heart.livejournal.com]

Lovely visuals in this.

[tryst-inn.livejournal.com]

I often feel that my nights are a benign, secret primitive life. Usually when I speak of it, which isn't often, the immediate response is to condemn me for being up so late or walking the streets alone. This tact completely misses the beauty of these nights, which is likely why I allow it to happen so often instead of preventing it via medication.

Thank you for receiving this without that criticism. *hugs*

[wild-heart.livejournal.com]

Ah, I understand why you walk. Really, truly understand it.

Besides . . . I pity the fool who tries anything with you. *g*

[tryst-inn.livejournal.com]

Especially with my new belt gun, eh? :)