Midnight Dogs

The wind was the thing. The wind set the mood, it blowing hard on my ear and my cheek. I heard naught but it on my ear, and it through the naked trees, they raising bony fingers in a frenzied salute to the wind.

The wind was the thing. The wind from the north, it pushing translucent clouds through a search-light moon, they washing the sky with golden soap, and watching, watching, watching through the veil.

The wind was the thing. The wind hurried my steps, my mind tromping, and tromping in time. Boots tromping in time, a Kipling ryhme? Seven, six, eleven, five... nine and twenty miles today?

The wind was the thing. The dogs knew its rush, they pulling hard at the leads. Toe-nail clicks quick and light, they pushing the pace, they needing a chase, they seeking a possum, or coon.

The wind was the thing. The midnight dogs, they sniffling high of the wind. I heard naught but them on my ear, their bay to the scent on the wind, their bay a salute to the wind.

The wind belonged to my "Midnight Dogs", it pulling them along, it tromping me along.