Rain drops and leaves float to the ground carpeting the path in a fall tweed. Yellow, red, orange, ocher, a welcome contrast against grey sky. The evergreens remain loyal to their colors, while the hardwoods surrender theirs. Birch trees reveal mottled curls on variegated bark. Sycamores show smooth, white coats freckled with brown spots, while oaks display deep creviced mazes of bark and branches slick with moss.
You don’t seem to mind the rain today. The scents of the season cling to the moisture of the cool heavy air. Hunting season. Does it bring back memories Dwight? You were a hunting dog…right? I don’t mean to pigeon-hole you, but you look like one. Tail up. Nose to the ground. Focused, following the scent. Jowls puffing air in and out, as you pull me along today. We are tracking something. It’s your instinct, what you were bred for. Do you miss it? Do you long for the way life used to be?
You wander off the path, deeper into the woods, blending seamlessly into the brown fall scene. Only your white chest, boots and snout reveal your location.
I wish I could let you off leash. I’d love to watch you really track and hunt, Dwight. But, I’m afraid you’d follow your nose and not return. I’ll let you lead me off the path. We can explore together, living in the moment. Don’t look back…were not going that way my friend. Now…for just a little while.
dear-dwight 