Flight

There was a point in the day, before the clouds dropped down low trapping the geese between the earth and the sky, turning their calls into hollow, reverberating echoes, when the sky was nearly perfectly blue and clear and even my light hoodie made me feel too warm. I took Duncan, who has had a rough weekend with a bad belly, out into the warmth of the day to roll in the snow, which is heavy and only a sunny afternoon away from slush. It seemed to cheer him, and watching him play and stretch and forget our frequent late night trips out to tend to his business cheered me. The whole of Littleton seemed happy with our weather and good fortune and even the hawks, which nest in the tall cottonwoods dividing The Run from the golf course, were moved and urged to take flight. As Duncan and I trudged down the length of The Run their calls stopped us in our tracks. Duncan, rarely distracted from the snow, craned his head all the back and watched the two large birds circle overhead, barely flapping their wings as they rose and rose and then glided back and forth, their shadows dark on the white snow as they sped past our feet and then across the trunks of the trees before leaping up the side of the building and out of sight. They danced in the air for a long time and Roo did not take his eyes off them for a moment.

I could not help but wonder if he too felt the jealousy of their flight and how marvelous it would be to soar with him above the park and the lake, the red of him burning across the blue sky, trundling through the clouds, leaving no footprints, a wake of vapor expanding out behind us like dandelions caught on a breeze.