Spring is well into its adolescence here in the Pacific Northwest. She's trying on Summer's clothes and pouring 90 degree heat down over us. The azaleas have unclenched their tiny fists of color in the lace of new leavesand wilt a little; the clematis snakes its fingers out to feel the wall and the tulips hold their cups up for water. The earth that was black with rain dries and cracks; a tornado of scent swirls in the dust. The evening bruises with color. Branches of the butterfly bush shoot out in chaos. The night aches with growing.
In the morning I watch my little dogs flash -- white and red and black-- and strike poses in the green green grass. I notice that Gus’s chest has filled out; his ruff carves an elegant “S” starting just under his jaw. Flynn’s soundness echoes in the air, all legs firm beneath her.
As she marches away from me in the grass grown too high, I can see the curve of her hip and thigh under the wide flow of her satiny culottes. She is eight this month, and I feel time moving away from me, as surely as this new season crashes in from above and below. Everything new is coming into form; everything is already aging and moving away. In the stalk of the daffodil is its wilting…in the fullness of my dog’s age is her leaving.