Chester bounded over the groomed trail only briefly trying to go forest bound where the snow was deeper and ice encrusted. One drop through of the crust and he was back out on the trail more informed and bounding as if it was Sunday on a Friday night. He was going to church.
The moon shown right down the trough and lite the trail almost to the point of offering us color, but even a winter day has almost no color except the many shades of gray, so the night trail remained just darker shades of gray---or is it a whiter shade of pale?
We walked fast and at times I found myself accentuation my stride in a Monty Python silly walk, it was exaggerated, rather a sign of pure joy, with my arms flopping wildly as we sauntered eastward. Ann appeared less animated as she peered out from under her Zhivago scarf. I am sure she thought I was an idiot, maybe like some insane buffoon loosened from the chains of the Cuckoos Nest. That's OK pure joy can have its moments of insanity, or can insanity have its moments of joy. Just "Once in a very blue moon"
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