The rain falls. The trees are dark green with damp and a mist lingers. Darkness is creeping over. I am alone out here. Inside they work - counting fish, washing buckets - and I relish the quiet and calm sound of a thousand raindrops, the intermittent whooshes of air as the seals surface to breathe.

Oboe surfaces in front of me. I lean over, he reaches up, and we brush noses. Curious, him to me. Up he comes, flip-flopping, fur sleak. Big nose pushed up against my knee. He sucks the sleeve of my fleece, the toe of my boot. Up he reaches, I lean down to him again and he investigates my braided hair and my blinking eyes.

In the darkness we sit side by side. It is a wild animal, I tell myself. The seals, these musical instruments, overwhelm me. Such curiosity, such softness, such care.

I leave the pool, take off my boots. Water slides down my neck and back, face and nose. It is completely dark now and I fumble for my wet sandals. Oboe watches me walk away, his eyes never leave me, he shines in the amber glow of the flood lights.