I think there are beavers living in the stream on the golf course near my house. My critter-crazy hound dog, Boone, jabs his nose in the muddy bank, foraging for the semi-aquatic rodents. It's a desire for forcing action, and maybe more. He's most alive when chasing, most focused in pursuit.
He pants with purpose, wild-eyed, joyful. His scanning intensity locks on a lone squirrel 40 yards north. Now he bolts full throttle and almost gets it before treeing. Loud and angry chirps from above, Boone barks below. After a bit, we continue.
The walk itself, for me, is the embrace of slowing time. An empty off-season golf course, long fairways squishy with snow melt, soaked greens. Slosh never sounded so good under cloudy winter skies.
And it's a hopeful kind of quiet. Last year come and gone, time for renewing vistas. My breathing is relaxed, morning air is crisp. I take an inside turn and look forward. This year the pandemic will wane, normal will be different, hugs and handshakes not far behind. Better days.
Atop a ridge, I circle the full 360. My sense of being there is deep, like being tightly held by someone who loves you (and you love back). The sky closes in, bare branches wave. I remember that phrase, "When you walk, just walk." Sounds about right to me.
Boone, for the moment, is still. His brown eyes study me, then the woods. I study the woods too. The walk back to the car is not a straight path. We'll cut through those trees to the south, and cross over the stream just beyond that.
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