We Call It the Jazz Bird

February 12, 2010.  Friday.

Situation:  Work tonight, have to leave about 3:45, take Mway out at 2:30.

State of the Path:  As soon as I step outside, I wish I was wearing sunglasses it’s so bright.  But it’s far easier walking today, stepping on the snow hardened a little by the sun and from further smashing down.  Across the lawn, across the fields, the snow is remarkably clean and white, and it spreads like a desert across bug land, hiding all but the biggest and most stubborn weeds.  I walk along with a stride, knocking apart the ridges from yesterday’s foot prints.  But by the time I’m walking back uphill to the clearing, I’m surprised to find myself a little tired, my feet tending to step only right in the foot prints that are already there.

State of the Creek:  The loopy vine is sticking up in the path.  Snow has melted off the barrel, but the logs and ice are still covered.  I hear birds in the trees, and further down a second type of bird – I believe it’s the kind that Moi and I call the jazz bird, although I could be wrong.

The Fetch:   With the snow partly packed down in the clearing, Mway has an easier time fetching, and she goes at it almost as if there were no snow today.  I lose count how many times I throw the stick.   Back at the porch, I note that the stick is caked with snow and glistening with her saliva.  Inside, since my boots are wet, I don’t hide them behind the door as I have been, but put them out in the open beside the clothes hutch, where I hope they’ll dry off better (but I am a little concerned that tomorrow Mway might drag away one or both of my boots, either to the music room or into Moi’s bedroom, like she did for many years, to remind me that it is time for her walk).