May 3rd 2009 4:44 pm
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We walk, Sara and I,
Along the cold sidewalks of our city.
Dry footsteps mark our passage, city sounds in the distance.
Not the soft silence of new-fallen snow or swish of rain.
We pass the fallen trees of the Soltice season, cast off now as so much refuse,
But still the scent of douglas fir and scotch pine reaches out, memory-laden.
Sara stops to sniff each one. I look at her and laugh.
My laughter sounds, sharp in the frosty air, like the tinkling of glass ornaments long gone.
I think of Dalton on this very walk, marking his way along the trail from tree to tree.
I'd always thought it sacrilegious somehow, lifting a leg as we passed by.
Sara's never had the pleasure of an indoor tree.
Dalton saw to that.
They'd ask me, "Do you have a tree this year?"
And I would answer, "No. I have a male dog."
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