Walking the Dog

Down the street a Mimosa tree is laden with pink blossoms, its upside-down triangle acacia shape unmistakable even from a distance, its fragrance filling the air. I breathe deeply. The dog sniffs, too.

By the alley next to the corner lot where those fenced-in dogs bark at the kids walking to school every morning, this dog inspects the usual places: a telephone pole, a cable splice, a tall weed that's the darling of all the dogs in the neighborhood.

In the elementary school parking lot, Nighthawks circle and swoop high in the air, the white stripes on their wings shining brightly against the night sky. The dog thinks them odd so we stop a while and watch.

On the soccer fields, with the soccer moms and coaches and players long gone and the lights turned off, it is dark. It is dark, and it is quiet, because the wind is out of the south, blowing the road noise the other way. Overhead the Big Dipper hangs on a wispy cloud. (The dog does not notice this.)

This is spring in Texas. The evenings won't be like this much longer. The breezes might continue, but the air won't be so cool. There are not many nights like this left.

So I think we will walk around the track again.

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