It snowed last night but the ground is still warm enough that it didn't last long. It melted before I was even in bed, where I got to lay with Duncan and the kittens balled up around me, listening to the sound of the water dripping off the roof, a hypnotic lullaby that pulled me quickly into my dreams.
The morning was wet but warm so Duncan and I trudged through the mist and damp leaves down to The Glen where he got to run and poke along the fence line. I watched the fog roll across the golf course, among the cottonwoods and back over the homes on the far side of the hill. The morning seemed without sunlight or even the need for it, as though the fog were somehow light enough, illuminating even as it obscured. I am not someone who fears the mist, but delights in the games that can be played there, the way it swallows and spits back sound, smudges lines and definition even as it emboldens color and unity. I could walk a thousand miles in the mist and never grow weary of its magic.
I stood on the edge of the open earthen bowl, my palm resting against the smooth bark of a young aspen, and watched Duncan vanish and appear over and over again, the gentle sonorous jingle of his collar keeping me appraised of his location as he moved and flitted out there in the haze. Sometimes the sound would fade entirely and I would feel my body stiffen as I prepared to call out for him or jog down and back up the other side of the bowl to hunt for him in case he'd gotten lost in his wandering. But then there he would be, a flash of red in the white haze, his divine brown eyes meeting my own, a smile seeming to come to his face, a sense of place and belonging returning to his muscles and mine.
No matter where we go we would find the way in our shared company, my good, red dog and me, earthbound loadstars, one for the other.
The morning was wet but warm so Duncan and I trudged through the mist and damp leaves down to The Glen where he got to run and poke along the fence line. I watched the fog roll across the golf course, among the cottonwoods and back over the homes on the far side of the hill. The morning seemed without sunlight or even the need for it, as though the fog were somehow light enough, illuminating even as it obscured. I am not someone who fears the mist, but delights in the games that can be played there, the way it swallows and spits back sound, smudges lines and definition even as it emboldens color and unity. I could walk a thousand miles in the mist and never grow weary of its magic.
I stood on the edge of the open earthen bowl, my palm resting against the smooth bark of a young aspen, and watched Duncan vanish and appear over and over again, the gentle sonorous jingle of his collar keeping me appraised of his location as he moved and flitted out there in the haze. Sometimes the sound would fade entirely and I would feel my body stiffen as I prepared to call out for him or jog down and back up the other side of the bowl to hunt for him in case he'd gotten lost in his wandering. But then there he would be, a flash of red in the white haze, his divine brown eyes meeting my own, a smile seeming to come to his face, a sense of place and belonging returning to his muscles and mine.
No matter where we go we would find the way in our shared company, my good, red dog and me, earthbound loadstars, one for the other.
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