The wind and some rain, friends, - have broken the humid weather. The promissory note in my imagination that the angel of the clouds made, - has been proven to have been writ true. It was too muggy, dry, - still. Now- for now anyhow- it is what I deem to be normal. I think of the old summers, - and remember it (falsely or accurately), as being more like this. Breezy, kind, warm but not oppressive. I took the furry friends out to the farmer`s forest. He had a little tractor, - matted green, parked on a hill near the beginning. I noticed he cuts the grasses, the tall wild grasses that grow in the hills and the flat parts. I am sure he has his reasons, a Canadian almanac farmer, and aged, - surely knows more about such things. Yet, - I wish he would leave them alone- let them to grow incredibly wild and un-kept in the sun, the rain, the cricket-song night. Oh well, it sure still makes for a nice enough scene,- even benevolent- the thick clouds,- like cotton, piling themselves on top of one another with a try to stay,- summits, forest paths, red-winged black birds, the rest,- et al.
Inside of there it is even cooler- and there is a bounce in the dogs ‘steps. Run and run they do through the bushes, the side paths, and the tops of ridges that lead down to valleys. They are easy going enough, - and circle round after a short while, - back to me- or catch up, or come back. Sometimes I snap my fingers with my right hand for the Husky as he likes to get his nose into a bit of trouble here and there while he lags behind. His sister rules the roost here- at the homestead, - and tells him what to do, while the forests and fields are his domain primarily and she knows this. She lets him be,- sometimes telling him in her own way upon his return from a side-adventure that he has gone too far, taken too long. In playing- she can give him a good go- but cannot really keep up- his legs are longer, - a bit more agile- and whereas she is fast and spry by most any standard, - a good and solid and healthy athlete, - he is a cut above that way- can run a faster sprint, can jump onto a the top of a sand pit, up four or five or even almost six feet- quite easily.
And she rests. Looks for shade, is cautious. He does not rest and will not sit down- this is histime and he knows it. She is always ready after to go home- and anticipates such. He stares,- even after the best two hour walk by river and hill, though all manner of adventure- out the back window like he has been taken away from paradise and longs to return. She dreams of air conditioning, stability, and family life. He longs for the hill, he longs as it were, as cliché as it may sound- for `the open road, ‘even if his road is coyote avenue, frog way, pine boulevard, oak crescent,- so on. But somehow they mesh and mingle, - offset and balance one another, like I have never seen or witnessed before. The sister reeling the wild brother in- watching out for him- and he would in the moment do anything for her- loves her- though like a strong silent type- is not prone to open displays of affection- and doesn’t talk about it- especially since he is a dog and does not speak. But as any dog owner knows he does speak volumes, as they both and all do- in their own ways…
So around we go- flies and bees- the regions bees suffering because of possibly- nicotine based pesticides- But were I go there are plenty-then the wildflowers,- the blue sky, the usual suspects of ant and tree and beautifully strange wild shrubs I cannot name (but still plan on finding a field guide to the regions flora and fauna). And we sit and loaf around- beautiful to do that- then head back and back through the same way this day- the familiar sights- and eventually past the tractor, still parked on the hill under the clouds that have taken over, - poetically and majestically,- practically the entirety of the day-firmament.
Some wide spaces along the way- green fields, - strawberry fields, - so forth- will meet us, - but for the most part the walk is over.
And its outta there and onto and into the other world again.