Cardinals at the base of a young tree splaying branches, no seeds or fruit that I can see, at least four red-headed adult males and their mates, at first indistinguishable among the more common-looking birds, but the gals too, amaze in the brilliant, sparkling white, hard crust of ice and top layer of snow, too thin to hold a human, but these birds, the male cardinals, most especially, flit and skate under the cover of this nondescript little tree, never moving beyond its circumference, as if the space is an ice rink and they are players, training for tonight’s match.
Further on in the treetops are other flashes of darting red. Errant kites caught and hanging there, evidence of a time in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, before the snow and ice, seems a distant dream in this, the dead of winter, rustling in the frigid wind. As cold in those leafless trees as it will be all year. At ground level Thurber bounds ahead, jacketless and heedless to the deep cold and the terrain that is virtually unwalkable for us two-legged beasts but home to this mountain dog, the prime reason I am seeing these wonders. It is a gift he gives me, although some mornings it doesn’t wax quite the way I’m putting down here.
Thurber, a skiff of snow on his nose. What kind of dog is he? He waits at the curb with such a gentle pose. No anxiety. What has shaped his life that he need not wonder what is happening next. He knows it will not be long and we will be on our march to the park. To a place where he will sit on command, graciously accept his meat treat. Four in June, and he looks so spry, so full of life. Great expectations are those of a dog bred to run and hunt if each day begins with a walk in the woods.
Next: Running for Your Life: Marathon Mental Space
Further on in the treetops are other flashes of darting red. Errant kites caught and hanging there, evidence of a time in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, before the snow and ice, seems a distant dream in this, the dead of winter, rustling in the frigid wind. As cold in those leafless trees as it will be all year. At ground level Thurber bounds ahead, jacketless and heedless to the deep cold and the terrain that is virtually unwalkable for us two-legged beasts but home to this mountain dog, the prime reason I am seeing these wonders. It is a gift he gives me, although some mornings it doesn’t wax quite the way I’m putting down here.
Thurber, a skiff of snow on his nose. What kind of dog is he? He waits at the curb with such a gentle pose. No anxiety. What has shaped his life that he need not wonder what is happening next. He knows it will not be long and we will be on our march to the park. To a place where he will sit on command, graciously accept his meat treat. Four in June, and he looks so spry, so full of life. Great expectations are those of a dog bred to run and hunt if each day begins with a walk in the woods.
Next: Running for Your Life: Marathon Mental Space
