We walked down to the river house this morning, we four. I am the only one without a pedigree. Me, a free ticket mutt of no arranged marriage. The air was close, expectant, stout. The breeze would wait until the evening performance. The sun waited in the wings, back-staged by thin curtains of grey. My trio wandered down the steep embankment aisles leaving me on the balconied edge to look down upon the close-packed heads of Boston fern waving over the orchestrated pit of water. They allowed only the odd golden glimpse between their formal fronds. Not even one bird sang. We were too late for the main chorus. It was the first intermission backed only by the white noise of the waterfall, and the brushing of green grasses like so many program pages being turned. My three returned coated in the rich humus of the experience, and while I showered before the show, they would have their footbaths following. This is the first year that we have not entertained burrs. They do not stand the lines of animal cabs waiting to be carried home and we do not miss them.
Now, home, dog-tired and three of us sleeping, the dreams take over; the overture of the littorals, the symphony of the walk, and the finale of the return to our own hilltop house above the singing river. Soon they will wake for a new play – a short romp in the grass with soft river sounds. They know it well.
Now, home, dog-tired and three of us sleeping, the dreams take over; the overture of the littorals, the symphony of the walk, and the finale of the return to our own hilltop house above the singing river. Soon they will wake for a new play – a short romp in the grass with soft river sounds. They know it well.