This Moment - September 10, 2011

A train sounds as if it is drunk and staggering along the rails this morning. My ankle's small twinges announce a coming storm. Suddenly, the dogs are up and in battle mode, barking warnings at a passing truck. The small dog perches on my lower legs, his hind leg kicking the comforter. From the side windows I see the peach tree bowed under the weight of it's fruit. Roses and geraniums hold the last blooms on their stems, and yet the tomatoes still are green-hued. The small dog smells like a dog. Even so, I bring my face to his and allow him his morning ritual. Soon, he will bring me his pink bear to throw and once he has tired of the game he will whine to be let out to chase doves off the lawn and into the trees. The older dog's rituals are hers and from what I can decipher, involve discovering the nature of trespassers that crossed territory during the night. She only asks I open the door, then returns when she is finished to nose my calves as we walk back into the house. Both wait for me to complete my waking rituals, and for me to grab their leashes and head for the door again. For now I am back on the bed. Cars roll by. Leaves are just beginning to fall. Very soon the lawn will be covered. But not yet. My eyes are turned backwards, holding to what was, what might have been. I know that very soon I will have to let it all go, and like the trees, wait for new growth.