Long Hours

I am tired today and would not be sitting here awake were it not for the hour I spent with Duncan at The Ponds. The park itself is nothing special but the walk up--with the sun setting low over the wide fields of tall, yellowing grass that roll and climb uphill, ending at the old barn and the narrow line of elms and cottonwoods mingling in silence on the winding banks of the scratch-thin brook--is always remarkable. I took Duncan to the dog park not to play but to watch the light break from the sky, seep through the barren branches and boughs, drip down onto the grass and stain his coat. I took him to the park with the vague hope that that is where we will meet tonight in our long hours of dreams.