Living north of the 47th parallel, Halley and I now have enough sunshine to see our path and each other when we leave the house before 5AM on our daily run. I miss viewing the stars, but it’s interesting to see what the neighbors have done to their properties over the winter.
The air is warm, quiet, and clear. I can hear a train over in Seattle — al lthe way across the Sound. There aren’t any tracks on Bainbridge, and it’s definitely coming from the east. Not another noise except the constant chirping of hundreds of birds — so many at once that you can’t pick out an individual song. Reminds me of Twitter.
I can also hear Halley panting as we jog along, and I’m silently whistling to myself an old Dire Straits tune: Walk of Life. I picked up the habit of whistling noiselessly from my grandfather. He would go about his chores saying not a word, whistling silently while my sister and I tagged along. He spoke so infrequently that I can’t even remember his voice.
Despite the daylight, the waning three-quarter moon shines brightly, turning her beaming face towards the sun that she barely preceeds.
Halley pays no attention to the sheep grazing across the road. They’re old news now. For the first year or so that we ran this way together, they held quite an attraction for her: ears pricked, tail straight out. And when they beheld my little predator, they all stood in frozen attention. One time Halley charged them, barking, and sent them fleeing in terror before I could pull back on her leash. Now, though, they quietly ignore her.
Yesterday I didn’t get as much accomplished as I had hoped, so today I’ll have to hit the ground running, so to speak. Get back home, give Halley the remaining treats (good girl), head inside and get to work.