I took the morning’s walk by myself today since Helen was unable to join me. Without the benefit of our usual conversations about all we see and notice around us, I was left to my own devices – devices that yielded the following impressions given at random and without any care for proper temporal sequencing:
A single robin first seen on the grass at the edge of our driveway where he was foraging for worms: conscious of my approach, he carefully hopped or flew a few feet further away from me each time I attained some predetermined robin tolerance point (PRTP) during my walk. The brevity of each PRTP relocation evidenced his live-and-let-live philosophy, and the careful eye trained upon me at all times was his surety that the philosophy was shared.
Red-orange pine flowers covering the ground, intermingled with the gravel of our driveway to give it a reddish cast in the morning’s light.
Small jack pine cones littering pavement, gravel, and grass alike without any demonstrated affinity for one or the other.
Bird song near and far, with a back beat given by the distant calls of the pair of mated mourning doves who share our neighborhood and visit our feeders; the unlikely sight of a single mourning dove perched overhead on a telephone wire, waiting for its mate and seemingly bereft and disconsolate in its absence.
Bits of blue plastic ribbon from some unknown source ground into the tar of our metalled lane without coherent pattern or rhythm .
Berries of all sizes growing high and low among various vines and bushes, showing themselves by means of their pastels and primary colors against the dominant green – red, yellow, salmon, and the whitish green of nascency.
New green growth on the tips of several bushes and trees, especially the large cedars down the side lane opposite our house – not-yet-fully-assimilated new growth serving as spring finery for mature trees seeking the attention of those who pass by.
The lack of Beau, the neighbor’s three-legged dog who usually follows us as we walk by the fence delineating his territory, treating us to earnestly barked admonitions.
A distant, single, drawn-out neigh of one unknown member of the neighbor’s horse herd already let out from their barn to graze in the fields farthest from the lane on which I walk; and the noticeable lack of their breathy snuffling of anticipation as I pass the fence where they often await our passage.
A patch of the new neighbor’s previously well-cut, well-trained field now awash in blackberries due to the lack of any spring cutting; internal speculation as to whether the patch is being let grow due to laziness or to provide privacy from my gaze.
The blessed wild beauty of Len and Rebecca’s (our former neighbors now living in the city) undeveloped, extensive acreage and curiosity about how long it may remain that way.
The bright red-violet shout of welcome from the massive, blooming azalea planted across from the head of the driveway where it enters the turnaround in front of our house as I trudged the remaining few feet to our door carrying the morning papers I was about to read while cooling down.
Tall stalks of yarrow growing in miniature forests underneath the blackberry vines lining our marsh, and my musings over a hypothetical symbiosis; the carpet of vibrant yellow buttercups whose outermost edge lies within our fenced-in pasture and delineates the boundary between marsh grass and edible grass – a veritable DEW line across which I dare not take my tractor until high summer for fear of becoming stuck.
The view from atop the large hill down which my aching knees must carry me on my return home; the view looking eastward into the rising sun dappling the uphill portion of the previously-and-yet-to-be-travelled lane (that portion rising from the ravine into which I must yet descend) with the shadows of morning.
The welcome sight of the black and white striped sign affixed to the telephone pole placed too perilously close to a sharp turning in the lane as a warning for inattentive drivers; the sign presently serving as our western-most turning point for the final leg home, a marker we will eventually surpass as our walks extend with the daylight.
A pale yellow bird house with a soft, washed-red roof adorned with two bright blue minarets perched atop a dirty, off-white porch railing – snuggled into the corner where the railing turns, yet set parallel upon a single top rail rather than kitty-corner across two.
Five vehicles passing me by as I keep to the edge of the road: two neighbors on their way to work and one returning from an errand; an immense garbage truck returning from picking up the commercial wastes generated by the neighboring horse farm; and Helen on her way to the early morning doctor’s appointment that prevented her from accompanying me on this morning’s walk, telling me through her rolled down passenger window that she’d left the front door of the house unlocked in honor of my impending homecoming.
Is this more fun than a rousing game of r-ball? Could it be that Gavin has started to enjoy a form of relaxation and retirements???