Walking the DogMarta Ferguson
Not my favorite weather, but not far off—misty, fortyish—just chill enough to redden my cheeks, keep Daisy in constant motion. We walked today, lapping up the scenery with our four eyes, hers more intent on other gods [sic] than mine, taken with the houses I’d never explored, just north of us, that somehow going north, I’d never seen. I’m after something here, more complicated than the wonder of an hour’s brisk walk in the weathers. My tendency to miss the obvious: The mist on my face, the hood hung pleasantly about my ears, her bright black nose, her pounding heart.
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