By late afternoon the skies were shrouded in ominous grey clouds. The storm front was easily visible and creeping slowly toward us.

My human had rushed about here and there, shutting windows, in the event the swollen clouds released the rain before our return from our walk.

At the park, I stood calm against the impending storm.  I could smell the rain in the air.  The scent of ozone swirled around.

For me, there is something almost magical right before the clouds weep, an anticipation of sorts. Like you knew this tremendous energy was about to be released and you wanted to absorb just a slice. To be a little bit wild and unpredictable.

In that moment you could get a glimpse of, not how life was, but how passionately fierce it could be.

Let’s set fire to the rain,

Jack

Summer of Splendid Sun  – A Poem in One Sentence

My fav

summer days

are when it rains

sunshine.

It was June. Endless fields of grass stretched out in front of me.

The green of the grass was beautiful and vivid after the spring rains.

The blades danced in the gentle wind as they reached up in supplication to the setting sun, singing thanks for the warmth of the day.

As I walked through the field, it seemed to me that the grass was happy.

Or maybe, it was I who was happy.

Carpe Diem,

Jack

The first thing I noticed was the distinct sound. I looked down the street and saw a motorcycle approaching.  My heart held a special place for motorcyclists. Most riders I knew picked adventure over comfort and saw life through a unique lens.

Life was a highway, they said. We all picked our own roads and how we chose to travel on them.  It made me wonder if all humans who enjoyed riding a motorcycle had a different view of life’s highway.

First, because I was a canine and much of my life was processed through scent, I wondered if it had to do with the olfactory experience. Imagine the abundance of smells that were experienced all at once by the constant rush of air when on the open road.

And then I wondered if it had something to do with the lean. Unlike passive vehicle driving, motorcycles demanded the rider lean into turns.  On a bike, you can’t sit back and let the bike do all the work for you; you must be equally engaged.  It was a whole-body experience.  And there was a sweet spot in the lean; too far either way had unintended outcomes.

Finally, I wondered if maybe it was simply because motorcycle riders knew that the road listened to what they had to say.

How ever you choose to navigate life’s highway, may your travels be safe, your view unobstructed and your adventures many.

I am not all that fond of black and white photos of myself. There is a somberness in the lack of color in the surroundings that makes my heart ache. It feels as if the photo is capturing the very essence of my soul, with all its shadows created by the judgement of others, and placed on display for everyone to see. It is almost too real to bear.

And now that moment captured on film has transcended beyond memory; to be relived at any time with a simple glance at the grey image.

It is a bit of an odd situation to be in, striving to sit in comfort with self while the chatter of self-recrimination echoes.

But alas, that is where I spend most of my time.

Until next time,

Jack