The Color Purple

I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. (Alice Walker)

There is a place in the corner of the park not far from where the bunnies roost. It rests against a tall but gentle hill on the back side, where a wide circle of crab apple trees grow, short and squat like pretty soldiers standing at ease. While most of the white blossoms have browned and curled and fallen away, littering the ground around the trunks of their trees like rusted snow, the purple blossoms have hung on, growing brighter and smelling sweeter each morning. It is a quiet spot, one Duncan and I have spent innumerable hours enjoying, laying in the tall grass watching the fluff drift from the cottonwoods on summer afternoons or basking in the glow of the lights above the baseball diamonds on hot nights when the sound of a ball striking a wooden bat is best enjoyed.

As happens so often, the moment we left the apartment Duncan had a destination in mind, a place to lead me to, a moment to share. He slowed as we approached the ring of crabs and I stopped to admire a clump of purple pansies growing in a line along the edge of the maintenance road. Clear drops of water clung to the wrinkled, lion-faced petals, which clutched them back as tenderly and protectively. The sun dipped behind a cloud and the water turned silver and reflected the sky above. It took my breath away but Roo, who grows restless when he's on a mission, pulled me away with one short, sharp bark. After a few moments I relented and followed him into the small grove of purple-flowered trees where he sat suddenly and with purpose among the clover.

And then it happened. The sun peeked out and a breeze spilled down over the top of the hill and rushed over us like the slow cascade of a warm waterfall. The trees stirred, the boughs and branches rang a wooden chime and the purple petals took flight, gusting first up and then sifting down over us, radiant in the burst of sunlight, twisting and spinning in the air, a violet shower of sweet smelling snow flakes that dotted our heads, alighted on our shoulders and backs, danced around our feet. Duncan looked up at them, rolled onto his back to show them the softness of his belly, his long, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth while I reached into the air and let them fall onto my open palms where they gathered like wishes waiting to be wished.

Not Merely Being Wet

It is cold. Cold and gray, a sweater kind of weather. Hot tea and cocoa and curling up on the couch with a throw wrapped tightly around me, tucked under my chin. The rain has fallen almost constantly since last night, steady and rhythmic and almost painful on the cheeks and tips of the ears. But there are puddles––big ones, and wide, too––and the grass is green again and even though socks get wet and pant cuffs stay damp, it is fun to walk through, sluicing around heels and toes, tap tap tapping with each step.

There is discovery in a cold, late-summer rain, a kind of startling realization that all good things must pass, that the heat that has gripped us almost painfully, cutting off our breath and nearly bruising the skin, is not long for this top side of the world. The day has been dark and tonight will come sooner than I'd like. I am not done playing with The Dipper or watching the bats amass in the air above The Glen. I am not ready for Orion's long, slow prowl across the southern sky. There is still much I want to do.

But discovery, even the unexpected kind, can be pleasant if you find the eye that wants to see it. Duncan and I tromped through the puddles in the park, blessedly empty except for the high school kids running cross country circuits down the slope and across the fields. A small stream appeared at the base of The Mound where none had been the day before, running downward, pulling the long blades of grass with it, like hair caught, but not captured in a drain. We pondered the sudden change in the leaves, now beginning to burn with cold rather than bleach in the sun. We discovered the faces leering out at us from the Snapdragons, with watchful eyes and pronounced noses. We were not content merely being wet, but sought joy in our watchfulness and openness in the strange and sudden change that has descended upon the Front Range. This is not how I like things, in this bittersweet end-of summer time, but I am ready for what is to come next.

Bliss

There comes a point in May when it seems Spring isn't quite able to sustain itself. The thick purple and white blossoms, which only a week ago exploded in a brilliance there are no words for, have begun to fade and slip from the trees, replaced by leaves, curled up like new butterfly wings and too delicate to offer shade or shelter. Duncan and I stood at The Mound today, the slight hill, crowned with chokecherry trees, elm and pine, and watched the wind pull the bright blossoms from the branches and scatter them in the air around us where they hovered and finally rained earthward, spinning and turning softly as they fell at our feet. The grass, still new and thickening, is being carpeted over by purple and white, and specks of gold where the dandelions peek through. The sky clouded over and fine mist like rain fell, igniting such rich smells that I could only stand, eyes closed breathing the rich Spring fragrance while the petals alighted on my cheeks and Duncan's back. If only such moments could be repeated and our world was one where trees continually flowered and rained blossoms about us. I suppose it's the impermanence of Spring that makes it so joyful. Tomorrow we may not walk under a canopy of colors but a magnificent carpet will have been laid out for us, fresh and redolent. And that will a bliss just as kind as today's.

Coronation

This morning before leaving for work I was forced to tromp through mounds of snow and scrape it from my windows. It was heavy and wet and required very little effort but by the time I was done my shirt and socks were soaked all the way through and I needed to change clothes. Duncan watched me huff and puff and curse, and wondered, I'm sure, why I didn't just throw myself into the stuff and roll around like he does. What else is it for? After all, this morning was most likely the last opportunity I'll have until October. It's a lesson he's attempted to teach me over and over and over again, but I don't appear to fully understand. Still, he doesn't mind demonstrating.

Like Duncan, fickle, darling Spring has many lessons to teach. For instance, what we see is not always what we get. What is true one hour can be false the next. My cigarettes and I kept tabs on the day, stepping out every few hours from the dark corner where my desk sits in the back of the bookstore to turn my face up into the strengthening sunshine and warmth until the hour I arrived back at home to my dog, waiting as patiently as the grass, victorious over yesterday's snow, green––more green than before––and exposed. I took him back to the park, back to the places we'd played yesterday, recreating our walk, this time without the snow-angels or the blowing flakes flying into my glasses or sneaking under my collar.

The world is different today and I can't help but hope it will stay different, greening up more and more, turning bright with exploding flowers and the scent of so much growth, creating itself anew every few minutes. I do not hold a grudge against winter's last gasp because it made this afternoon all the sweeter.

See for yourself.


What a difference a single day can make. How happy my Willow Queen must be in her coronation gown.

One Last White

I tried so hard to be lazy, wanted it so badly, wanted nothing more than not to walk the dog, not to change into my heavy coat, the one I'd hung at the back of the closet. I sprawled on the bed in my sweater, Duncan spread across me, one eye on my face, one darting to the window where the snow fell on the other side in thick, heavy globs, shattering on the sidewalk but catching on the delicate branches of the shrubs where the little birds have only recently spent their afternoons hopping and playing. Oh, he wanted it so badly, more than I wanted to stay warm and dry and dozy on my soft pillows. My shoes had somehow found their way free of my feet and had fallen like fat, brown sticks, one on top of the other, both halfway under the bed where Duncan sometimes sleeps, neither wanting to be found. Olive curled up on the big pillow closet to my head and the warmth of her heavy, gray and white body was already beginning to pull me into a nap. Duncan was patient but finally the call of the now was too loud for him so he jumped up, shook the entire bed as he pounced on me and startled Olive away. I had no choice; it was snowing what will certainly be the last snow of the season and I could not deprive him of a good long gallop through all the fluff and fuzz collecting in the park, erasing the greening fields and chasing away the children and their hovering, droning parents.

I don't remember how it happened. I can't imagine I moved quickly, certainly not quick enough for Duncan. Somehow or another I was coated and shoed, a bag of treats in one pocket, my camera in the other, out the door and down the yard, ducking under the drooping, snow-blanketed branches on my way to the park, Duncan mushing ahead, scooping snow in his jaws as he moved forward. And then there I was, in the park, standing atop the mound looking first up into the branches at the snow sifting through them and the few flakes that managed to navigate their way to the pine needle-covered earth at my feet, then at the expanse of white spread out around us in all directions, thick with lumps like cottage cheese. The grass was buried with only some of the taller blades protruding, periscopes made for ants and roly-poly bugs. The willow standing guard near the west field was frosted in sugar and up to her ankles in melted snow, but she looked magnificent and regal in her new dress, a tall queen surveying her kingdom.

Quiet joy all around, the kind only sudden Spring snow can bring.

Old Foes

As lovely as the park has been as of late, I can't help but feel Duncan and I have been robbed of the peace and quiet we found there all winter. The fields where we've romped and played and rolled have been overrun with kicking screaming kids in soccer and lacrosse garb whose parents can't seem to find the common decency to pick up and recycle their discarded water bottles. Almost daily the entire park is turned into one giant garbage dump full of deflated balls, spat-out plastic mouth guards, crushed soda cans and more cigarette butts than I can count. It's disheartening, but because Duncan and I love the park, and because it allows us to feel somewhat heroic, more deserving and superior, we try to clean up as much as we can.

This afternoon as the snow began to melt we headed to the park, which was blissfully free of children and their wretched parents. It was cold and windy but the park was ours! We could run wide circles and Duncan could tend to business without feeling the reproachful eyes of coaches and disapproving mothers on us.

Apparently we weren't the only ones who felt that way. After crossing the street and inspecting each of the trees on The Mound for squirrels, we caught sight of our old foes, The Shepherds. They were, of course, off leash and running wild, far ahead of their owners (again, I need a better word for "owner." Keep those suggestions coming!). I stiffened up and tightened my grip on Duncan's leash. We paused for a long moment, just outside of the trees in plain view. I thought they'd leash up the dogs once they spotted us but they did not. They paused at our appearance but merely pushed on, heedless and without consideration.

It wasn't quite the walk I wanted, keeping my eye out for the beasts, and without my cudgel I felt vulnerable. Thankfully the walk passed without incident but their appearance on such a day was reminder that Spring can pose as many dangers as the dark winter months.

King of the Hill

It's a Duncacentric world. Seems everywhere we walk there are places that the boy just lays claim to.


Like the tree just outside the gates. It's covered in ants and only occasionally yields a squirrel, but he could stand here for days.



Or Duncan's Mound at the park, where he roots around, smelling God only know what.



Or Duncan's Glen, the natural bowl at the corner of the property where he accidentally taught himself to fly this afternoon.



No matter where we take him, though, he's the King of the Hill.

It didn't bother him at all that it was our first cold day of the season, or that the grass was wet, or that the leaves he was rolling in kept getting tangled in his tail and coat, after all, that's what he keeps me around for.