Keeping Watch

In late autumn (and early winter) when the leaves have fallen, sound carries a a very long way, through the bare trees, the hills and valleys of the Lanark Highlands, through the clouds and cold air, over the hills and far away.

Beyond the slowly freezing beaver pond and a few kilometers across the ridge, local coyotes were singing their pleasure yesterday, and Spencer paused in his explorations to listen thoughtfully to their chorale.  Behind him, the western hill was a tapestry of earthy color: beige, taupe, russet and faded green, and everything was in restless motion.  Dried grasses fluttered about, fallen leaves danced in spirals, the bare whiskery trees rattled like old bones in the north wind.

My beautiful boy is four now; he is the finest and most loving of companions, and a watchful guardian on our rambles.  He possesses a huge heart, a playful spirit and a vibrant curiosity, and he shares our deep love of wild places.  Butterflies, leaves in the wind and wild coyote songs - it's all good.