with the life of the night and trees around them, the humming/vibrating/cricketing. Time slipped sideways through the tufted pink sky, the sun sinking low as twilight sneaked in. Now only the moon lit the way, dappled on the muddy path of stones that stuck out like garden gnomes and roots that lay waiting like snakes in silence. She looked straight ahead, her feet feeling the way while the dog trotted on, an occasional shadow ahead with a jingling collar. The water to her right, she heard voices behind and turned to look. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but she didn't hear them now. The trees began to blend into black, moonlight crisscrossing her trail through the leaves.
She remembered how when she was young the shadows on her walls at night activated her imagination to sometimes ridiculous heights. Like in Annie Dillard's short story, the headlights of a passing car during black sleepless nights sent a shrieking flying shadow across the room, only to curl up and whither at the corner. Lights and shadow. She kept walking, remembering being young and afraid of the dark. Of the unseen. Of what's ahead.
She kept walking, and she and the dog went home.
