Dan Lyksett
Last night, walking the old dog, her gray muzzle pressed against the molding leaves and grass just now emerging from their snowpack burial. For the moment all life in that ground is microscopic, invisible to me, but it is there. And if I wait through a few more turns of my world on its axis, the warmth from our sun will call the greening to life. I need only wait a few more turns of my world on its axis.
Deep, black night, no moon but living stars you know from astronomy may be just coming to life or dying but nonetheless offer their brilliance. No planes overhead, no blinking lights and no distant hum of jet engines, no travelers heading for Chicago with sales orders to be filled or back to Minneapolis with their straw sombreros, happily exhausted from their warm climes’ vacations. I recall another night standing on this very ground with the dark sky bereft of planes, Sept. 11, 2001. But the moving night lights and distant hum of jet engines eventually returned to that empty sky. I’m sure they will again. I need only wait for a few more turns of my world on its axis.
The old dog gives me the eye and points her gray muzzle back toward the house. She knows it is time for a treat. Just like she knows when it’s time for breakfast, and time for a nap, and time for a walk, and then another nap, and then dinner and another walk and then a treat and then to curl up at the foot of our bed and dream of chasing or being chased.
Throw in moments of belly rubs and ear massages and a lap where she can rest her head. There are no voids in this old dog’s life. It is how this old dog’s world turns on its axis.
I need only wait for a few more turns of my world on its axis.
Dan Lyksett is a retired reporter, editor and columnist who is tucked in at home south of Eau Claire with his wife, a pack of Labrador retrievers, a pug named Roy and a cat named Norm. He appreciates the virtual companionship and inspiration offered by our creative community, but he also misses having a couple beers with friends at the tavern.