The beginning of wisdom, as the Chinese say, is calling things by their right names. (E. O. Wilson, as cited by Elizabeth J. Rosenthal, Birdwatcher: The Life of Roger Tory Peterson)

Saturday, January 8, 2011

Shuffling through New Powder

January 8, 2010.  Friday.
Situation:   Work tonight, have to leave about 4:15.  I hear Mway milling about as I get up from my rest around 3.   Downstairs, she is ready and eager for a walk, jumping at the back door as I open it.
State of the Path:  It snowed a little last night, and there is a new powder on the old hard snow, which is slippery underneath.  The sidewalk is not cleared off.  By the time I get to the walled garden, I realize I have to walk with shuffling feet and stab hard into the snow with my walking stick to keep my balance.  Beyond the pig pen, I begin following a new track made by Mway, meaning that Moi did not venture far this morning when she took Mwayla out.  Past the sumacs, I hear what sound like Canadian geese flying overhead, but when I look for them in the sky all I can spot is a sparrow or something flying over the ridge.   Mway runs way ahead of me, flipping over on her back one time to rub her back in something she has smelled.  By the time I am walking along the creek, Mway is off in bug land exploring, and I realize I am making my own new track in the snow.  When the path itself is too slippery, I step off to the side into the weeds.  At the seep in bug land my foot crushes the ice that formed there the last few days.  It is easier walking upward toward the clearing than it was walking downward to the creek. 
State of the Creek:  The new snow has fallen on some of the ice in the creek, so the creek is a patchwork of different colors, bright white, gray, various shades of brown.  There is no snow on the rocks, but there is on the logs and branches.  I still can’t break the ice with my walking stick.
The Fetch:   I still have the fine stick that I’ve been using for the last few days: Mway hasn’t mislaid it or chewed it to pieces.  Up in the clearing, where she knows the stick is to be thrown, Mway starts hopping up and down, walking backwards, as I carry the stick toward the upper part of the clearing.  As I look back in the direction of the electric pole, I survey the area that I have to throw the stick in and remark on how the clearing really is starting to widen as the goldenrod and other weeds become more trampled on and beat down by the cold and snow.  I throw the stick in various directions, toward the electric pole, toward the spot where we used to have our abandoned Dodge van.  But Mway only fetches the stick four times, then goes bounding off on the path back toward the house.  When I enter the backyard, I see Moi coming out of the back door to do something outside, and Mway stays in the backyard, loping around with the stick in her mouth.  When I get on the back porch, I have to call her to the door.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Lg kicw kwr ya vw reyw
Ri ibw lbirgwe+ die rgw qieks qguxg awwna
Ri kuw vwdie ya kujw l klbs id sewlna
Ai cleuiya ai vwlyrudyk ai bwq
Glrg ewlkkt bwurgwe hit bie kicw bie kufgr
Bie xwerurysw bie ouwxw bie gwko die olub
Lbs qw lew gwew la ib l slejkubf oklub
Aqwor qurg xibdyaws lklena id areyffkw lbs dkufgr
Qgwew ufbielbr lenuwa xklag vt bufgr,