Perfection

     The dog was alone, walking alone, not trotting, but walking across the field with intention, as if it had a specific destination--home after a night out? an impromptu foraging? exploration? It was morning, early morning, a sun-just-rising, field-damp-from-the-cool-night's-condensation time of morning.

    The dog thought it was alone, but I was there too, watching his steady trot, never a run, but it was moving swiftly enough to catch my attention. I, of course, was in my tree, not high up--too early for that, just on the first broad branch, elevated enough to detect movement across the field, but not high enough to see the fence below the rise in the field or more than the roof of my shack.

    A stray dog, I thought. A lost dog? A homeless dog? 

    I considered whistling to it, but didn't want to interrupt the peace of the morning, mine and his, and my whistle, my interpretation of a whistle, was more wispy air than music.

    The dog stopped at that thought, lifted its head as if it heard my inner voice, looked in my direction, then right at me, as if it saw me, really saw me, took me in, contemplated my presence, then continued its steady trot across the field, beginning his day perfectly with a morning baptism in a dew drenched field, as the earth turned, the sun rose, and the glimpse of another silent, solitary creature--me--drinking in the morning was the perfect start to his day...and to mine.

Yes!