The wind alternates between strong gusts and silence,
Swinging tree branches to and fro
In front of the streetlights providing
Island havens among the dark. The shadows dance.
Light. Dark. Light. Dark. You
Follow your dog as it drags
You forward with its short leash,
Nose sniffing away at things you
Cannot see.
Dark. Light. Dark. Dark.
The road narrows up an unlit hill.
A strong gust rushes past.
The treetops billow and wail.
Your dog stops, alert, listening,
Staring into the dark.
You start to pull it back, but it won't follow.
Come! you cry. Let's go! and it finally starts to move,
But it keeps its neck twisted sideways, staring.
As you retrace your steps, feeling the security of the streetlights
Fade behind, as if each died out of existence as soon as you passed,
You tell yourself over and over,
Trying to evoke the truth of the mantra through repetition:
There's nothing to fear . . . all is well . . .