The warmth returning to the air and the bones is like the miracle of life itself. The wood pile is getting low so I ventured out into the mud and muck of early spring to cut some wood. I found some of the trees that did not survive the winter, there wood still in good condition and compared to the rest of the forest they are much dried and easier for the saw to bite into. The smell of pine is intoxicating as alway. Quinn, as expected, made a mess in the mud chasing and barking at the chipmunks who are eager to play after the long confinement of their winter nests.
The warms of labor does wonders to melt the frost of a long winter off of the soul of a man deep in the wilderness. The mountain's old, deep, moaning song of winter changes to the deep beat of a waltz and the pine trees add their voices in celebration of the new light of spring. The whole forest seems to dance with that song and the soul of a lone man is lightened with the joy that seems to be all around him. But there seems to be something off about it this spring.
It would seem that Quinn has been taken by the same carefree spirit as the rest of the forest. There is nothing quite as enjoyable as play wrestling with a dog that has trapped inside for the whole of winter. I remember him being so excited about the first snow just as I was but I think that the confines of winter acted on him much quicker then they acted upon me. The flip side of that is that I think that the magic of spring has acted on him much faster than it will act on me.
I can not help but think about what a change I have seen in this dog over the course of the year that I have known him. He came to me a broken pup about to be taken by Death and now he is something... something else. A perfect loyal companion. There are times when I feel like the wolf-dog should return to his pack, the pack of his father at least, but then I remember the condition he came to me in and I know that it was his pack that had done that to him. Anymore I get the feeling he considers me to be his pack and I know that I reciprocate that feeling. A pack of two outcasts.
Work awaits but I cannot shake this feeling that something is coming to me. As if the next part of my path has already been chosen and I'm just waiting to walk it. I suppose I will find out when my foot touches the ground. For now the saw calls to give its own voice to the song of spring.
