I walk late at night in the country here. I walk in the dark. I walk when the wind howls and the drops drizzle. The night is my time. It is restless time. I start to overheat. I want to either end the night completely accomplished or absolutely frustrated.
I want to wake up the next day already having said goodbye to that task and planning summer visits. Or I want to be so locked in horns with it that I won't give in. Either of those. But the space in between is probably some of the worst.
And the truth is that more nights out of the week are those nights. I continue to stare at this infernal contraption each night expecting to find my fill. To have played all the notes out of this instrument. But that day never seems to come.
So I walk each night. I walk because without it the entire evening would have been a waste (I would have sat there all night!) in my head. And more often than not it gives me a little back in waking me up and helping me center and prepare that time.
I walked the other night. I wandered off the driveway and onto the street. The moon hadn't risen above yet so my eyes defined the contours of gray as the road and the ditch. I walked along and suddenly spooked a bird. The bird called as it flew away. Then I listened. I heard more birds calling in the night. Calling for each other.