Track

I am tired of winter and it seems ours here in Colorado has only just begun. There is little I find enjoyable about it except watching Duncan's immense pleasure running through the snow, huffing his way through the morning's new drifts, oblivious to the cold on his naked feet or the powder that accumulates and balls up in the long hair of his chest and belly. Each morning and evening he runs far ahead of me, scattering the squirrels and little birds, driving a cloud of white billowy breath and snow before him. There is no limit to his love of all seasons, but it seems winter is his favorite. Many times I find myself alone on the trail we have carved in the snow along the The Run, looking ahead for a flash of red among the snow-covered shrubs or behind the ice-encrusted tree trunks. But then I look down and see his tracks running alongside mine, perfect footprints, a perfect accompaniment to my own and I am reminded that he is never far away.

Duncan is never far from me. We are bound together like the stars are bound to the night and although he may slip from my view momentarily he is quick to return to my side, his nose nudging against my gloved hand, the soft sniff warm against the bare skin at my wrist, the sound of his feet breaking the snow beside my own, leading me out into the world and then back home again where we are safe and warm and can rest.