|A storm to the south.|
No matter. The evening walks will go on. A ritual created by the presence of Ike and his requirements for exercise, for exploring, for chasing and playing. Turns out we require those things, too. He is endlessly fascinated by the cows who briefly hold their ground, then amble off at the last moment, looking back at him reproachfully; and the rabbit that lives in the woods near the oil pump and the armadillo who, despite Ike's thundering run, makes good his escape every time.
|Too fast to focus.|
It's not quite yet, but it soon will be, the most lovely, the most melancholy time of the year. As summer loosens its blazing grip, as the days shorten and evenings cool into purple, the sense of time passing - of the past - heightens. It's a delicate season. Its bittersweet flavor makes it my favorite, yet I also dread its coming. And still...is there a place of perpetual fall? If so, I might like to live there and walk through the twilight.
|Winston in the rosy twilight.|