Walking in the light of the half moon I see a rabbit dart across my path; I’ve disturbed its breakfast. And over by the fence, a small commotion as I come through the spruce. Fox, raccoon, coyote, wildebeast?? The neighbourhood stray named Cat, perhaps? I dare not look too closely, turn my face upwards instead, toward the moon, clear and bright in the still dark sky—I’ve recently learned that it has the same willingness to please as the night’s first star.

And so I issue a little request: please, not wildebeast.