Monday 3 am, wind is battering the south side of the house. Un-pruned rose shrub canes scratch against the house pleading to come in to escape the cold. Dogwood branches tap against the window interrupting my already fitful sleep. Today's day time temperature is promised to rise to the mid fifties but to hear the cold wind at this early hour that promise seems overly optimistic.
Snow has retreated into small piles from all but a few patches on the north side of buildings and walls where its tenuous hold borders on heroic. Grass is greening up, bulbs peeking above ground urged to life by the periodic warm spells must be expecting a warmer welcome than this. There is a faint promise of spring as these temps tease us, seeking to play the joker’s hand in luring everyone out into the garden to meet the annual festival of rebirth that is Spring.
L and I were able walk around the neighborhood yesterday. Two sweatshirts was all that was needed as protection from stubborn chilly winds. The streets were eerily empty as is often the case on Sunday afternoon. The occasional homeowner puttering around in their garage and of course the constant alarming welcome of dogs is the only sounds that interrupt or commune with nature.
I often wonder if a dogs bark is a plea for us to let them out of their enclosure so they too can explore the neighborhood. Or maybe they beg us to come over to them and simply show some affection.
To them it must seem excruciatingly cruel to be locked away from such a wide unexplored territory that is their neighborhood. They see all of these people walk by, free to roam wherever they choose and here the dog has to remain behind a fence.
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