We have a new favorite place to play in the morning when the grass is still wet and cool from the previous evening's rain and the sun is bright and not yet hot in the lightly dappled dream-blue sky.
Directly behind our apartment is a narrow strip of sloped land which runs between our complex and the golf course, starting where our back door would be if we had one and ending at The Glen. Were I thirty years younger and unconcerned with mud and gnats which float like moats in the air, it would be my home away from home, where I could hide with my Star Wars action figures while simultaneously envisioning the trolls and fairies who played under the bridge and lurked in the long grass which grows so high it leans forward under the weight of the morning dew. There are flowers there, daisies and greatbighuge violet-colored things which erupt from vines in tight clusters, and Creeping Thistles whose stems are as thick as Duncan's forelegs and whose purple heads grow taller than my own.
There is birdsong, too, from the robins who root for worms on the soft muddy slope, and the tiny brown birds who hop among the low shrubs and bushes, and black scoundrels with a nearly perfect red square on each shoulder. There are others, too, some whose voices sound like doors creaking open or corks being pulled from bottles. Some sound like questions and others like poems recited slowly and deliciously, the words and notes savored in the mouth like dripping, luscious fruit. If I spoke their language there would be much to learn and even more to celebrate on a June morning such as this. I don't speak it but that doesn't impair my ability to relish it, to let it lift me, to ride it while standing still in sunshine mottled shade.
I do speak Roo, though, a nearly wordless language conveyed mostly through smiles and the raising and lowering of eyebrows, the wagging of a tail, the height of a bound and the spring of a step. When he is off leash in The Run, darting to and fro, turning his head this way and that at the songs of the birds and the chitters of the squirrels, we understand that words are not necessary, that joy is universally understood and best when silent with a wide-eyed smile.
If my life consisted of nothing else but Summer mornings spent outside with my dog I could die a happy man and look God in the face and tell Him or Her my salvation was earned through the fullness and jubilance of these brief moments.
Directly behind our apartment is a narrow strip of sloped land which runs between our complex and the golf course, starting where our back door would be if we had one and ending at The Glen. Were I thirty years younger and unconcerned with mud and gnats which float like moats in the air, it would be my home away from home, where I could hide with my Star Wars action figures while simultaneously envisioning the trolls and fairies who played under the bridge and lurked in the long grass which grows so high it leans forward under the weight of the morning dew. There are flowers there, daisies and greatbighuge violet-colored things which erupt from vines in tight clusters, and Creeping Thistles whose stems are as thick as Duncan's forelegs and whose purple heads grow taller than my own.
There is birdsong, too, from the robins who root for worms on the soft muddy slope, and the tiny brown birds who hop among the low shrubs and bushes, and black scoundrels with a nearly perfect red square on each shoulder. There are others, too, some whose voices sound like doors creaking open or corks being pulled from bottles. Some sound like questions and others like poems recited slowly and deliciously, the words and notes savored in the mouth like dripping, luscious fruit. If I spoke their language there would be much to learn and even more to celebrate on a June morning such as this. I don't speak it but that doesn't impair my ability to relish it, to let it lift me, to ride it while standing still in sunshine mottled shade.
I do speak Roo, though, a nearly wordless language conveyed mostly through smiles and the raising and lowering of eyebrows, the wagging of a tail, the height of a bound and the spring of a step. When he is off leash in The Run, darting to and fro, turning his head this way and that at the songs of the birds and the chitters of the squirrels, we understand that words are not necessary, that joy is universally understood and best when silent with a wide-eyed smile.
If my life consisted of nothing else but Summer mornings spent outside with my dog I could die a happy man and look God in the face and tell Him or Her my salvation was earned through the fullness and jubilance of these brief moments.
