Ogunquit waves that slap glacier sharp rocks chant a heart beat song. Nesting in mountains a shrinking moon dances with wooden finger-snapping branches. The sky is seemingly pierced by spikes of fir and brown oak leaves rustled along pushed by the night wind. That winter white disk climbs higher in the blackness obliterating Maine night starlight while flash lighting our path. We walked along the Marginal Way with its elk-horn soft haired bush limbs herding us along. A lone loon’s voice broke our solitude like the sound of black pond ice cracking during the February thaw. A foreign tongue, it seemed. We didn't understand; the word was so short, so bittersweet. But we were moved to contemplation. A ghostly cloud scutted across that lunar dish darkening our way. Some things can't be changed, or won't, or shouldn't. Our deepest secrets are born of darkest nights, then forgotten in light of day. But they float to the surface when the moon is momentarily shadowed. We stumbled on a gnarled root that attacked our night walkway. We caught ourselves before we fell when that galleon sailed, white-sheeted once more, across our evening sky. The Marginal Way stretches only one mile from end to end, a twisted ribbon of Ogunquit coast. Even winter walks are filled with sea-salted perfume to soothe our weary wintered senses.