Frog Song

Walking with Michael on a sunny winter morning was just what the doctor ordered to soothe my worried mind.  It should come as no surprise that so-serious Michael has a set routine on our walks that rarely varies.  I keep him on a very loose leash and he can wander at will, within reason.  We stop on the downslope while he sniffs the air and surveys the terrain.  Moving on, he has to check out what's going on at the winery.  Not much happening there in the morning, but there might be wine tasters and cars in the afternoon and that's pretty interesting.  As we walk around the drive, Michael, like his predecessor Bessie Anne, stops for a bite of grass salad in the morning, dressed with dew.  (I used to think dogs ate grass to induce vomiting; 'taint so.  Some dogs just like it.)  He checks out the goats and we count the vultures (over twenty almost every day now).  The big birds are so used to us that they sit on their posts until we're about eight feet away.  Even then, they just move a post down.  We're no threat.  Michael practices his fire-fighting skills by watering down the burn pile in the west field, and moves on to his favorite spot at the corner of the defunct garden area.  From that vantage, he can see all the way to the neighbors'.  If he's lucky, there might be horses, alpacas, a donkey or two, and maybe a goat in the acres of pasture.

We had stopped there yesterday on a very quiet morning.  Standing there, I realized it wasn't quiet at all.  What sounded like thousands of frogs were singing, singing in a very loud chorus somewhere at the bottom of the hill.  That's not something you'd hear in the city.

Mike is coming today, hopefully, to finish the deck.  Stanley did call yesterday with helpful advice.  I made it to the grocery store.  Michael joyfully won the race again.  And the frogs are singing.

It was a good day.