To walk the ridge.
The old dog has me figured. A few left over meteors were set to fly tonight. I’ve been down. Not from the injury but because I can’t get out. I’m not sure what I’ll do when the day comes I’ll be shut in. The old dog knew I was up to something; she stayed under foot, perked at every move. Once the moon went down we were off looking for dark skies full of mischief.
Green snow on the southern mountains reflecting the Aurora in the north.
Strange light, rolling the backroads. We were heading east where the stars rise. Away from the lights of the valley. The sky was storming but not with clouds or meteors.
The air felt good. The sky rolled with waves of Northern Lights. The old dog kept watch with the same vigilance as when she was young. The injury disappeared like I knew it would. It needed the right medicine.
North to south.
The old dog didn’t see the aurora, or maybe she did, I don’t know. On the way back mice ran across the road through the headlights. Each time the old dog perked, when I know, as well as she, she can’t see past the end of her nose. Tonight she was the stronger of the two of us.
We set out expecting to see meteors and ended up seeing colours. That’s the way it is with the bush. Either way you can’t help but feel lucky.