Lauren Denton
This morning, I took our dog Ruby on our daily walk up and down the streets around our house. I try to do it every day, but of course, there are days when I have errands or plans or it’s too wet or cold, but if I can swing it, I take her. If I don’t, she’ll lie by the front door for hours, reminding me with occasional heavy sighs that I’ve forsaken her. I don’t handle the guilt very well, so I try my best to leash her up and take her out.
It rained for a few hours earlier this morning, but it stopped just before we set out. Because we’re in winter, it’s not humid and steamy as it would have been in the summer. Instead, it’s cool and damp, with water dripping off every surface and pooling in every crack and crevice. I’ve realized lately that by walking close to the same time every day, I’ve become accustomed to many of nature’s rhythms and routines in this little corner of the world. Today, as we set out on our walk, the low-hanging clouds both muffle and amplify the sounds around us, and the recent rain has every nook and cranny teeming with life. I walk slowly and carefully, and we take it all in.
A hawk circles high overhead, its wings open as it coasts on breezes I don’t feel here on the ground. As usual, a few angry blue jays dart around in the air below it, screaming out warnings to stay away from their nest high in the pine tree across the street. Up the road, a neighbor has a tree in the corner of her yard that’s always full of birds. In the spring, it holds nests with eggs, but today, it’s alive with the fluttering of wings as little birds hop from branch to branch, chirping and calling in a language I can’t understand. Nearby, there’s a powerline strung between two houses. Last week I spotted a lone owl sitting on the line, his head swiveling slowly side to side. I look today, but I don’t see him. Maybe he doesn’t like to get his feathers wet.
There’s a large house down the street with an open garage. Friends who live nearby say bats rush out of the garage every night at 8:00 in the warm months, a massive cloud of black sweeping into the sky in search of a nightly mosquito meal. We’ve never seen this bat parade, but I’m determined to catch it one day. A few streets away, we pass one of my and my kids’ favorite sights, a koi pond built into a terraced yard with a trickling spring. We love looking at the beautiful orange and white koi that swim among the rocks and ivy. One day as we passed by, the owner came outside and asked if I was interested in having fish of my own. He said he’d woken up a few days before to a bunch of koi babies swimming around, an unexpected addition to his pond. Today, I pass by without stopping to check and see if he’s found a home for the surprise additions.
As we walk, our feet quiet on the wet leaves in the road, dogs amble or race to the very limits of their front yard electric fences to investigate Ruby, the curly-headed, skittish dog walking by. Ruby pulls on the leash to keep as far away from the dogs as she can, but when she sees a squirrel dart across the road, she’s intrigued. Not enough to run after it, but I see her ears prick up and her nose wiggle. When we make the turn out of the neighborhood and onto a busier street, I’m delighted to find it free of cars. The only non-nature sounds I hear are someone hammering a few streets away and the low roar of the interstate, but that’s so commonplace it fades into the background. When it’s quiet like this, I like to imagine what this part of Homewood might have been like 100 years ago, or even more, when there were no leaf blowers or loud lawn mowers, no commercial airplanes soaring overhead, no cars or trucks disturbing the peace. I wonder which of the trees we pass under has been here the longest.
As we turn back onto our street, I notice the red maple tree in a neighbor’s yard. I remember walking past it in the fall when it was at its most glorious, with blazing red leaves set against an electric blue November sky. But today, on this cool, gray winter day, it still has a particular beauty. Its branches are stark, blown clean of all leaves, and in their place are thousands of water droplets. They are pearls strung up and down the length of each branch, waiting for the sun to come out and burn them away.
We’re two houses away from our own now, and Ruby pauses and looks back at me. Lately I’ve been letting her off her leash a little ways away from our house so she can run back home. It’s a small thing, but she loves it. I reach down and unclip the leash and she takes off, bounding through our neighbor’s grass and over a low wall on the side of our yard. As we approach our front door, the tiny brown chipmunk that lives in our bushes darts across the path and into a hole on the side of the front walk. Ruby jumps up against our front door, leaving two wet paw prints on the sun-faded wood. I unlock and we go inside, and as I put away the leash, I’m already looking forward to our next walk. Maybe tomorrow we’ll see the owl.
When I’m not writing about my family and our various shenanigans, I write novels and go to the grocery store. My novels are found in stores, online, and locally at Little Professor Bookshop. You can reach me by email at Lauren@LaurenKDenton.com, visit my website LaurenKDenton.com, or find me on Instagram @LaurenKDentonBooks or Facebook ~LaurenKDentonAuthor.
