There, the veins on the ferns. There, the ducks squawking on the pond. There, the willow branches draping, dipping delicate leaves toward the water. There, the world draws me outside, out of the cocoon of my bungalow.
These days my little dog lingers on her bed, longer than last week, and longer than the month before that. She peers out at the wet and dreary day and pulls her shoulders closer to her ears. She turns back inside and heads for her bed.
It'll be a solo walk today.