A few people sit in shady spots fishing, but other than that, Hector and I have the hot afternoon and the pond to ourselves. Hector has his nose to the ground, weaving it back and forth with intense seriousness, like a cartoon dog. We circle the pond, me trying to get the light as it…
The ducks are of two minds. I’m a bother, but I am something to yell at. Some jump to the ice. At dusk, the ducks might as well be ice. Winter pastels fade into brilliant blues and reds that spread from the horizon across the pond, the field, the day. “Those ducks . . ….
“We’re going for a walk,” I call to John as I clip Hector to the leash. Hector is the new dog. He’s figuring the street out—analyzing smells at posts, cocking his head at distant barks, growling at squirrels and rabbits he can’t chase. My street is wide with no sidewalks, few cars. The curve past…
G Bebs / Photographs 