A peculiar start to winter is this. Over and over again, the village freezes and thaws, and there is little or no snow in sight. Morning jaunts are chilly exercises, and we dress warmly when we go out, shapeless eidolons in parkas, scarves, woolly hats and gloves.
On walks, the puddles along our trail are fringed with ice, and they seem to be conversing with the sky overhead, sometimes bleak and cloudy and grey, sometimes brilliantly blue and filled with light. Encountering sunlight is always engaging this late in the year, particularly in pools of melt water.
Beau and I potter along at a snail's pace, keeping to wooded areas wherever possible to avoid the roistering north wind with its rattling, gelid fingers. We scuffle our feet among the crunchy fallen leaves and twigs underfoot, and we talk with the trees, especially the beech mother in the park and her daughters. We listen to crows conversing over our heads and feast our eyes on early light slanting through the bare branches, count the fragrant cones suspended on old pines and spruces in the woods.
After our walk this morning, we returned home with our pockets full of fragrant seed bearers in all shapes and sizes, happier with our gathered abundance than we would have been with bags of gems and chests of antique coins. My companion has no pockets of his own of course, and he makes use of mine.
Long walks cannot uproot our grief, but they soothe our aching hearts in some small measure, and we take them whenever we can. Paw and paw, we walk for miles, and the beloved who has gone on ahead is never far from our thoughts. Wherever he journeys, we send him our love. May his trail be easy and filled with light.
Happy December everyone. Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit.
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