"The world will never starve for wonder, but only for want of wonder." (G.K. Chesterson)
I napped. A long one late in the afternoon, with lazy dreams that left my arms and legs sluggish and slow to move and my head clouded. But it was delicious and sweet and a sunset walk with Duncan in the park, nearly empty, was the perfect coda to this day. So he led me across the street to toss the ball and watch him gallop into the setting sun, vanishing from my vision into its honeyed glare, low and caught, as I prefer, between the silver-lined clouds and the hazy shadow of the mountains, painting the world in a golden brilliance for which words have yet to be written or uttered. The air was warm and the scent of the grass and blossoms lingered, unmoving and rich, as though waiting to be inhaled and savored.
And as we laid in the grass, my head resting against his belly, his tail draped across my shoulder, a most wonderful spring shower, hardly more than a trickle, seen more than felt, its gold streaks punctuation marks flashing in the softening light, dappled across the park. We turned our faces skyward, into the smear of a grey cloud wandering quietly past, our eyes closed but lit with the last light of the day, and just sat, not thinking, unmoving, bathing in the settling silence and glory of this blessed night.
"Is it so small a thing to have enjoyed the sun, to have lived light in the sky,
to have loved, to have thought, to have done?" (Matthew Arnold)