I've only just realised how beautiful the word evening is. Maybe I'm new to this: that evening up between day and night, that hour between dog and wolf, is a time of even - ing. The hour when everything is harmoniously balanced with light and dark. To go back to some earlier thoughts about the fugue and the gloaming, the word 'evening' begins to hold more meaning for me.
It's been a pretty decent full moon. Random Man (yes that one) has been out at the inlet mouth the last few days in his kayak, fishing for salmon. He said it was so bright out there on the white sands of the beach, that he could walk through the bush like it was broad daylight.'There was that triple ring around the moon,' he told me. 'There were dolphins surfing and whales jumping out of the water.'
I stayed in my house and watched the moon rise over the forest canopy. At midnight, as I was falling asleep, all hell broke loose on the back veranda. I heard the hound race out. Furniture and milk crates flying, glass jars of smoking chips breaking and then lots of shouting (from me), crashing sounds. In the torchlight I watched my dog try to kill a feral cat. I had to finish off the poor critter with an axe. I do wonder what the AirBnB guests next door were thinking about the kerfuffle. Surely, anyone else who has had to kill an animal at midnight with an axe, dressed only in underpants and ugg boots, will understand my story.
This brings me back to the gloaming, the evening. It's the hour between dog and wolf.