It was not the whistle of the robin, big and fat, round like some sort of exotic brown-skinned fruit hanging in the tree, or the glad faces of the ever-overlooked dandelions, mangy but decadent and unapolgetic in their brilliance, peeking out from the fraying blanket of snow which fell this morning and then seeped away this afternoon under a warmer but gray sky. It was not the pink ribbon, tied as it was to one of the large goal posts on the soccer field, flapping in the cold breeze, dancing and struggling first one way, then the other against the bonds of its own folded tail.
It was the girl, curled up as she was not far from the big willow where we often spend Sunday mornings sitting. We heard her before we saw her, perched on the cement wall where the small, sometimes invisible stream passes under the parking lot. The willow has not yet begun to sprout leaves along its tendrils, but she was nearly invisible behind its sweeping arms. She was young, probably no more than fifteen, and her blond hair was a mop pulled back behind her head, a few stray locks brushing loose against her cheek, tickling the bone-white nape of her neck. Her black pee coat was pulled tight around her gangly body, its collar turned up, her knees tucked up near her chest.
She was singing uninhibitedly in a buttery, coffee alto, a tune so soft and light not even the breeze could carry it very far. Duncan paused in his walk and leaned toward where she sat, his ears cocked high, his head turned softly into the melody. I knelt down next to him and watched him listen to her, captivated by the music both of them made, serenaded on this cold Spring afternoon by the stranger whose song my dog fell in love with.
*Image courtesy of Yahoo Images
It was the girl, curled up as she was not far from the big willow where we often spend Sunday mornings sitting. We heard her before we saw her, perched on the cement wall where the small, sometimes invisible stream passes under the parking lot. The willow has not yet begun to sprout leaves along its tendrils, but she was nearly invisible behind its sweeping arms. She was young, probably no more than fifteen, and her blond hair was a mop pulled back behind her head, a few stray locks brushing loose against her cheek, tickling the bone-white nape of her neck. Her black pee coat was pulled tight around her gangly body, its collar turned up, her knees tucked up near her chest.
She was singing uninhibitedly in a buttery, coffee alto, a tune so soft and light not even the breeze could carry it very far. Duncan paused in his walk and leaned toward where she sat, his ears cocked high, his head turned softly into the melody. I knelt down next to him and watched him listen to her, captivated by the music both of them made, serenaded on this cold Spring afternoon by the stranger whose song my dog fell in love with.
*Image courtesy of Yahoo Images
6 comments:
You write beautifully - I love this posting!
Beautiful picture, too!
You've been tagged! Come visit to find out all about it.
Your words are magic, transforming the least moments into treasured gold! Love that dandelion photo!
Wonder what she was doing there, alone. Waiting for someone? Missing someone?
I'm glad you still take in those moments of Magic every day, Curtle! There is AT LEAST one element of beautiful surprise in each day, and you're doing just fine if you can use all of your senses to take it in. Our little furry roommates are good at reminding us of such sensorial moments worth appreciating.
On another note, your new home looks BEAUTIFUL, at least in photos!
I miss you, and the uninhibited, [sometimes ironic] laughter you have always been able to muster in our long-distance or rare one-on-one conversations. 2008 was a year of Change, and 2009 is a year of New Beginnings, WHATEVER that means.
Much love & fond memories from far away,
Jen
Post a Comment