Yesterday, frigid wind made a current of powdery snow race along the field’s surface turning it into something like a broad shallow river. The field was rippled this morning as a result. Two acres of scalloped arcs no artist could have designed better!
The moments up there are bright: Finn and his happy retrieval; startlingly blue skies; sun glaring off an expanse of white.
This morning a single contrail divided the sky so that when I threw the ball with the launcher, it looked like it might arc up and over the vapors.
We lost the ball. Two days in a row. Even an orange lacrosse ball can bury itself to invisibility in a couple of inches of snow. But I found an African drum! It’s broken but still… looks playable, worth keeping.
Had all kinds of things to say, but as this day winds down I find myself tired, spent with writing elsewhere.