Thursday night lycanthropy

We were standing street-side this evening awaiting a cab, the muted hustle of downtown Oakland blowing about us. A bus stopped kitty-corner to us and dispensed humans at the curb, accelerating north up Broadway with a roar. Further south toward Jack London Square the Amtrak was rolling through, clack clack clack on its journey west.

Across the street a man ambled toward the intersection. Stopping near the crosswalk and cupping his hands about his mouth, he howled shrilly into the night: How! How! Howwooooooooooooooooooo! We wondered aloud if we were about to experience the transformation of a werewolf; his knees were bent slightly, accentuating the appearance of one making a primordial call to his shapeshifting brethren. I recalled seeing a large, bright moon on my bike ride to dinner. He pointed vaguely toward the bus shelter, a knowing look of satisfaction spread out on his lips. From our angle he might have been gesturing at the moon itself. Nobody save for us seemed to look in his direction, cementing the possibility that this man had cried out to creatures of the night unseeable by our mortal eyes. With nary a glance back, the man about-faced and slunk back into the evening.