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This is at the park where I walk the puppies, my second home. It’s about 5 in the afternoon. The temperature is in the high forties.

It was a beautiful day, not yet spring, but the promise is there. I’m told that a novelist is only allowed to use the word “beautiful” once in their career. Thankful I’m not a novelist.

The barrenness of winter always speaks to me, not sure why.

This is the creek. When it gets hot, I’ll let the dogs get into the water to cool off, but it’s not hot yet. They don’t give it a second glance.