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Traveling the Erie Canal
Companion He hears the click of his collar, and I hear the excited tapping of his nails on the kitchen floor. A walk - yes, he knows it so well this white-faced old golden friend of mine. These walks are good for us. It's a view from different angles as we hike the gray stoned path, lined with green. We follow the watery road where mule and horses and souls have walked before us. He's a good listener, lets me speak my thoughts, often without sound, loud without sound as friends through time might have walked and spoken this same silence. Each at our pace, free to explore around and within. The cool water draws him in and he floats easily; a huge fury mass, head held high, snorting, eyes intent on the stick thrown to confirm his retriever heritage, while parting the water with invisible paws. I call and he climbs carefully up the rocks to my side, twisting, shaking his body from head to tail, sending splashes of cold light that bring a chill and a smile as we turn to follow our shadows back home. Back home … the sun feels good as I brush briskly, pulling from his body the threads of last year's coat. They scatter in the wind to fall in soft golden clumps that dot the fresh green lawn. A fluttering motion catches my eye, a fluff of fur rises and falls, then floats toward the trees with the help of a tiny finch busy gathering the final, the softest lining on which to cradle her babes. As I brush I think of how Ben hates heights, how warm and comforting this nest will be, and how the circle continues through seasons as friends walk the path together. Joyce Brucato Arnold |