One evening at twilight walking with a friend in a deserted place in Door County, I saw a dog, a big dog ahead of us on the road.  That is, at first I thought it was a dog.  Then it seemed to be a young horse with long legs as it ran rather sideways. It had come out of a dense forest of tall trees onto the dirt road, then stopped in the cloud of dust it had stirred up. I looked around for my friend who was a distance behind me trying to locate a bird that was singing a sweet evening song at the edge of the forest.

As the dust settled, it appeared to me that it was not a dog or a horse, but a creature standing on two legs and gesturing with one arm that swept in a circle indicating — follow me.  It seemed to fall away into the gathering dusk, its momentum carrying it into a field of corn on the other side of the road.

It was the fall of the year, and the dry, yellowing corn stalks stood fading in the twilight.  I ran to the spot where the creature had disappeared as quickly as I could from about half a block away, feeling that there was nothing so important as knowing what or who that was.

But there was no sign of anything stirring in the still corn field — no dust, no disappearing form, no sound, nothing. My friend, who had seen none of what I had just seen, joined me, excitedly telling of the Hermit Thrush spotted in a tall tree and then listening to my tale of the vanished creature.  

We watched the corn field till dusk surrounded us — then walked quickly back down the road to the car in the fading light that remained.