Yes, I went for a walk today. And yes, I fell asleep in the tall grass, leaning on a rock, the sun warm on my face, my arms.
Slept like a child sleeps — drifting into clouds of wandering thoughts — birds, leaves, stems of flowers. You. And then yes, I woke, and Waldo, waiting in the shade, stood when I stood, wagged his tail.
And then, yes, we walked up to places we have not walked in a while, then down to places we walk often. We got to the creek, and I climbed a narrow concrete ledge, then sat and read high above the water — dimpled and flashing with this sweet-surprising-springtime sun.
Sun, where there should be only clouds and rain. And yes, we in the Pacific Northwest will soon pay for this unblemished sky. No water for crops. Turbines. Salmon.
But today — today I sat on a ledge over the snow-melt creek and pulled out a book and I read and took notes, real notes for the novel I have not been writing, because fiction these past six weeks, seems worlds away.
But today it felt closer. Today in the sun, I could think about seasons and life and death, and the stories we live and the stories we tell. And then I carefully climbed off the concrete ledge, and got myself back to the ground, and Waldo stood up and wagged his tail, and then, yes, we walked on.
On to the park where we saw people, Dana and someone named Joe with a dog named Ricky Recardo, and we laughed about Ricky’s squeaky ball, and I admired the sparkle of light on the water that moves always away.
And now, yes, I am home. and the sun pours through the windows and lights my desk and warms my hands, and the cat stretches and her color turns from black to umber in this unlikely sun.