Old tracks under new snow. I remember running around with a few dogs to
make these tracks, but fresh snow softens my memories.
The snow sparkles under a reborn sun, like stars in a sky of white.
I try, and try again, to catch the glint of the sun off the flat
face of a single flake. I haven’t yet equipped my tripod with snow
shoes, so I have to hold the camera steady with gloves off. Cold.
The sun flickers under wispy, high clouds. The flakes seem to turn
away from the sun just when I get close, but it’s me that’s moving –
the width of the reflected light off a snowflake is just too small.
A winter wetland. Never very deep, even in the wettest spring, the
little wetland behind our house gets muddy and overgrown by summer’s end,
but now, it looks so simple, so clean under the snow.
I’m still learning from Rafe how to care for someone else – learning
just how much of what I thought I was doing for him, I was really
doing for me. If his fur became too matted for my taste,
I would brush and tug at his mats. If his eating became too erratic
for me, I would force food into his mouth. But today, slowly,
finally, I’m realizing how much I’ve been doing for
my comfort and convenience – still, after all these years,
trying to shape him into my idea of where he should be.
Now, instead, I’m trying harder to listen. Rafe’s very soft-spoken,
but (lucky for me) he’s also very patient. He seems to notice my change
of heart, and he’s happier for it.