The Lake Talks in Winter

It's after nine pm when my dear little canine buddy, Spencer, and I finally head out for our daily constitutional. We're seldom out this late but the day was busy. Our usual route is very dark; only an occasional street light shows us the way but this permits the night sky to throw diamonds our way. Heavenful stars. Such riveting beauty. Just one of the wonderful perks of living outside the light-polluting realm of the city.

The road is ridged with icy grooves where tire tracks have frozen but made safe with gritty slip-saving sand. Ice crackles under every footstep and Spencer seems to take special delight, like a child, in breaking up any icy spots just to hear the crunch. As we turn the darkest corner, I stop, hold my breath. Yes, even the dog is holding his, his ears perked up. "Listen, Spencer! Listen!" We approach the shore. He listens, we listen, to the other worldly growling and groaning of the lake from under its massive load of ice.

This strange sound leaves me feeling a little vulnerable. I wonder if it's possible a coyote could creep up upon us. I'm not really worried; there are occupied homes close enough but there's that old primal brain signalling a survival "what if" when walking in a dark still wild place all alone but for the dog. We soldier on, creak-cracking road ice every step of the way.