Friday, May 21, 2004


The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on
-Carl Sandburg

The town was covered in fog this morning. Joke-What is fog? Answer-A cloud that knows someone. I love walking in fog. I took the dogs out west of town to run, walking in the middle of the dirt road that climbs up the hill there. A wind was blowing the small drops of cloud condensation in my face, making the tiny drops sting as the hit me. I walked up and out of the fog as I climbed the hill. When I got to the top I looked back at the town and could only make out the tree tops peeking through the mist. The clouds spread across the sky above me looked as if a giant wet hand had smoothed the undersides of them, blending them all together in one great smear of grey. The sunlight had been diffused by this mass, causing the underside of the clouds glow.

I turned and watched my dogs as they hunted for the scent of bird or rabbit in the field to my right. Today Kate was in the lead with Emma right on her tail. Whenever Kate stopped to sniff at something Emma would rush up to thrust her nose right at the spot were Kate's nose was holding. Somedays when they hunt Kate lets Emma do all the work. When Emma takes off on a run Kate stands still watching her. She lets Emma run around searching for a scent. When Emma finally stops, because she thinks has found something, Kate races over to see if anything is there. If there is a scent, Kate follows it, if not, she just watches Emma again as she runs off searching for another scent.

I start walking again and pass a field that has had it's wheat crop plowed under. Last Friday night the temperatures dropped below freezing killing any wheat that was at the flowering stage. Last week this field was covered in a thick blanket of green wheat. Today its covered with a brown blanket of dirt that has a swirling pattern of green and yellow lines running through it. The green and yellow lines are dead, uprooted wheat plants. I swear if farmers weren't farmers they would be professional gamblers and living in Las Vegas.

By the time we head back to the truck the dogs look like they have been sprayed with an undercoating of wet dirt. Their legs, chest, belly and butts are covered in mud. When I call they run up to me panting, with big smiles on their faces. They have had a productive morning and I take them home and reward them with breakfast.

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