The world has done what it likes to do once we find comfort and joy in it–change. This morning it was sunny and bright as I sat in my office, the window open, the blinds drawn, Duncan and the cats following rays of sunshine as they crept slowly across the floor. And then, shortly after Duncan and I returned from our afternoon walk, the skies were overrun with clouds and the rain began to fall, not in sheets, but something stronger than a heavy mist but lighter than a drizzle. By four o'clock it seemed seven and seven seemed midnight. Although the rain has let up, the wind has not and I fear we've not too many leafy days left. The park view out my window will turn from colorful and scenic to barren and desolate. I'm not a fan of Ol' Dame Winter and think her quite the bitch. I could stay in this prolonged Indian Summer forever.
This morning Duncan and I had fun marching through the drainage trough that runs directly behind the apartment, stomping on the leaves and kicking them up. He particularly likes this because he gets to jump and leap and bound and I like it because I try to imagine what he's thinking as the leaves rain down around his face and snapping jaws. Watching my dog is like watching a child discover their hands, or bringing a dear friend to your hometown and seeing it all again, brand new through their eyes. At the same time Duncan must grow tired of my wonder at his wonder.
He seemed impatient when I stop mid-walk to snap some photos to add to the most documented Autumn of my life. This afternoon as we stood between the yellowing rows of trees on the island in the middle of Bowles he could hardly sit still while I marveled at the light breaking through the canopy of gold and orange above our heads. I think he knew the rain was coming, that he wouldn't be allowed to sit with me on the couch, that I'd keep him from cuddling on the bed because of his wet dog smell. He was smart enough to spare himself an ire born of my silly desire to stop and gape at the world simply being the world.
This morning Duncan and I had fun marching through the drainage trough that runs directly behind the apartment, stomping on the leaves and kicking them up. He particularly likes this because he gets to jump and leap and bound and I like it because I try to imagine what he's thinking as the leaves rain down around his face and snapping jaws. Watching my dog is like watching a child discover their hands, or bringing a dear friend to your hometown and seeing it all again, brand new through their eyes. At the same time Duncan must grow tired of my wonder at his wonder.
He seemed impatient when I stop mid-walk to snap some photos to add to the most documented Autumn of my life. This afternoon as we stood between the yellowing rows of trees on the island in the middle of Bowles he could hardly sit still while I marveled at the light breaking through the canopy of gold and orange above our heads. I think he knew the rain was coming, that he wouldn't be allowed to sit with me on the couch, that I'd keep him from cuddling on the bed because of his wet dog smell. He was smart enough to spare himself an ire born of my silly desire to stop and gape at the world simply being the world.
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