She walks next to me and she runs ahead. The snow is melting; water above, water below. Pools in low spots are the color of pee over the snow. In the shade, a crust of snow and ice freezes over puddles.
The four o’ clock sun of March is still strong enough to set off on a short Sunday afternoon walk under. Down the old rail grade we go, the dog criss-crossing the trail in front of us. No one else in the park. Just the dwindling daylight of the dwindling weekend and the quiet talk of woods and meltwater, soggy snow seeping into the earth.
She slips her hand into mine. She runs ahead.