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Description
It’s a perfect night for a run.  I snap the leash on my dog Beaux, and tie up my running shoes.
Outside, the moon is bright and mist dances across the hidden mountain valleys.  I am standing in a breathtaking panorama; the mountains look like they are the texture of velvet and the sky is a deep navy, diamond-studded bowl. I feel so small and fragile standing with tall pines to my back and the enormous openness in front of me.  I feel like I should be raising my hands in worship or maybe even surrender; like the Inuit people of the north at the first sunrise of the year.
Still holding on to Beaux’s leash, I bend down and stretch out my cold, tense calves.  Beaux cowers behind my legs and perks his ears to the breeze in the wise branches of the pines.  I pat his head, straighten up, and begin to run.  Immediately, I feel tension on the line, I am literally dragging Beaux behind me. I stop and call his name, softly coaxing him.  His little body is tense and his fur is slick against his body, he looks almost wolf-like.  His eyes and ears taking in all motion and sound, the moon casting his shadow as that of a much larger, wilder dog.  I look at my shadow; it has a long, straight frame; it looks strong, like an Indian squaw.  I picture myself as such, with long black hair.  I look at the squaw shadow on the gray river of asphalt; in my mind I become her, wild, running like the wind.
I push away the serenity of the beautiful night with an unladylike burst of laughter.  Laughter, it felt so good, I pour it out of my throat.  Its laughter that says “look at me, I am here, and I am still alive” it is laughter that mocks.  The sound of it echoes and ripples around on the asphalt, it rustles under the pads of Beaux’s paws.  The wind shushes me. The trees impose silence. I stop laughing; feeling that I have violated something sacred I turn and eye the large swaying pines behind me.
Beaux pulls me home.

Description
It’s a perfect night for a run.  I snap the leash on my dog Beaux, and tie up my running shoes.
Outside, the moon is bright and mist dances across the hidden mountain valleys.  I am standing in a breathtaking panorama; the mountains look like they are the texture of velvet and the sky is a deep navy, diamond-studded bowl. I feel so small and fragile standing with tall pines to my back and the enormous openness in front of me.  I feel like I should be raising my hands in worship or maybe even surrender; like the Inuit people of the north at the first sunrise of the year.
Still holding on to Beaux’s leash, I bend down and stretch out my cold, tense calves.  Beaux cowers behind my legs and perks his ears to the breeze in the wise branches of the pines.  I pat his head, straighten up, and begin to run.  Immediately, I feel tension on the line, I am literally dragging Beaux behind me. I stop and call his name, softly coaxing him.  His little body is tense and his fur is slick against his body, he looks almost wolf-like.  His eyes and ears taking in all motion and sound, the moon casting his shadow as that of a much larger, wilder dog.  I look at my shadow; it has a long, straight frame; it looks strong, like an Indian squaw.  I picture myself as such, with long black hair.  I look at the squaw shadow on the gray river of asphalt; in my mind I become her, wild, running like the wind.
I push away the serenity of the beautiful night with an unladylike burst of laughter.  Laughter, it felt so good, I pour it out of my throat.  Its laughter that says “look at me, I am here, and I am still alive” it is laughter that mocks.  The sound of it echoes and ripples around on the asphalt, it rustles under the pads of Beaux’s paws.  The wind shushes me. The trees impose silence. I stop laughing; feeling that I have violated something sacred I turn and eye the large swaying pines behind me.
Beaux pulls me home.