We set off a daisy chain of dogs barking as we walk up the hill, across, past the Dairy Barn and back. Looking into suburban windows, front porch smokers silhouetted by the big silver paper moon. We walk in and out of tree shadows. My flip flops flapping, her four paws clicking against the concrete over the sound of roaring crickets and buzzing cicadas. The big dipper looms and that, if you turn around and look, is a great moon.