The moon was so lovely two nights ago, all smudged and silvery against an inky black landscape. It's one of my favorite things about venturing out for a late walk, the luminous moon on her shelf in the sky. But the moon is only the beginning. There are other things I love, too. The fragrant smell of drying laundry, for instance; the slow, sleepy way people move about inside their houses, washing dishes in front of the kitchen window, ironing tomorrow's shirt and pants in the dimly lit hall. I love the street lamps and the way the wind rushes down from the treetops. I love how still and quiet the world becomes on winter nights, like a machine switching into a lower gear.

In warmer months, everything is different. My dog Ginger and I hunt for toads in the summer, lifting them from streets and sidewalks and returning them to lawns. If lizards cross our path, we yield to them; if cats stare a hello at us from their windows, we stare a hello back. Once we saw a possum huddling low and menacingly in a driveway, like a fairy tale troll. Another time we saved an injured fledgling -- but only to have it die on us a few days later. In the summer there is no wind to wrap its steely claws around you, no real sense of stillness. The world gurgles, chirps, howls. Every last inch of it steams with life.

We don't really see other creatures now, in winter. Sometimes another dog and owner will pass us up, but those instances are rare indeed. For the most part, the neighborhood is skeletal and white, decaying. The toads dream their amphibian dreams underground; the cats burrow low into blankets. Only the moon remains, crisp and constant in a sea of stars, pointing out the path that will lead us home.