Half moon

I took the dogs for a walk on the ridge tonight. The moon was near halfway lit, with cirrus clouds around it like wispy, silver hair. Think of a Van Gogh sunscape in opalescent. I wore no jacket. Here it is a November night, and it's T-shirt weather.

I live in an old peach orchard that was developed in the 1950s, when they built a little less house on a lot more yard. The neighborhood suits me. There's a loop on top of the ridge, and the lower portion is a narrow little lane with a steep lower side where no houses have been built. The woods on that section attract the ocassional owl, fox and deer. I hear steps in the fallen leaves below me and wonder which critter it is. My dogs pay no mind, sniffing and peeing with no real sense of urgency.

We sift through moon shadows -- not just silver on black, but multiple shades of gray like a monochromatic watercolor. In contrast, the reds and greens of stoplights from town twinkle across the lake below.

I feel safe, for the most part, but the shadows are just enough to conjure the delicious edge of fear. I tighten my grip on the dogs' leashes and pick up my pace almost imperceptibly.

I circle up the hill by the empty house halfway down the street from mine. White pine perfumes the air and the lawn has holly, cedar and dogwood trees. Last Christmas I was tempted to clip a little greenery from there, but the vacant, black windows are daunting. The man who lived there died in a tragic accident shortly before I moved into the neighborhood. And before then, someone else was troubled enough to take his own life under that roof. The blinds are raised inside, but I fear the blackness has the power of pain, so I avert my eyes. I simply inhale the sweet scent of pine and move on.

At home I step into the light and slip the harnesses off of the dogs. They try to poke their heads back through the nylon straps, ready to go again. No deal.

Perhaps to them, like me, the light inside feels harsh tonight.

I remember years ago, when I was in high school, and we moved away from the only community I'd known. I was a junior -- halfway through the school year. Many's a sleepless night I slipped out into the yard on another ridge and looked out across the sky toward the Ohio River and whatever lay beyond. The world seem smaller at night. Old friends seemed closer.

I decide to shun the brighter golden light and return to the liquid silver. Turning out the lights inside, I pull up a chair on the deck, knowing there won't be any more nights like this one -- not for many months.

I listen to the sounds of the neighborhood: The hum of traffic below the ridge. The nervous yip of a dog -- or maybe a fox. The chirping of crickets, one of them near.

I watch as a jet passes silently under the orange glow of Mars, and I search my heart.

I come up empty.