A man and his dog

Out in the yard playing with the dog on a cold, damp April 18th in the midst of the coronavirus statewide pause.

Twenty-seven days to go, at least, according to the governor.

But right now: No governor. No masks. No social distancing. No virus.

Just the dog, a ball, and me. The dog retrieves it, sometimes even catching in in mid-bounce.

Again and again and again.

A steady rhythm of throwing, running, returning.

And then the ball strikes a blooming forsythia bush. A robin erupts from the bush, squawking.

I go over and look. A new nest, head high. As I stand there, the robin, on the garage roof, continues to squawk.

Look at me. At me. At me.

Not there.

I step back, then move back to the middle of the yard where the dog waits with the ball in his mouth.

We begin again. Throw, retrieve, return.

A rhythm.

And I think of spring, and robin nests, and blooming forsythia bushes, and bowing tulips still wet from the overnight snow and rain, and grass growing tall waiting for mowing, and a tilled garden waiting for planting.

And a man and his dog playing fetch.

And I thank God.

Pax et bonum