Today on my morning run I realized I live in paradise. Only colder.
I mean it though. To a desert-grown gal the lush Washington spring seems to be out of a fairytale, and I cannot fathom a more beautiful sight--even when that beautiful sight comes along side a busy street, as is often the case for my walks.
We have numerous walking trails near our home--winding, mostly paved, up-and-down trails--lined with giant trees on either side and sprinkled with pine needles year round. This creates a natural effect that makes it easy for me to pretend I'm far away from everything and everyone. But in the spring the vines and low-cut bushes creep out to narrow the path. The leaves fill in the trees with a deep green, a healthy green that--thanks to the clouds--is unbleached by the sun. And the spring blossoms pop out in deep colors like the forest's own fireworks. Then I know I'm in my own little paradise.
And maybe I don't mind the cool air. Heat can be overrated.
There are rules for these trails though. Little hints that society has taken over. The most predominant one is directed toward four-legged trail patrons--and their owners. It is assumed, and perhaps decreed, that all four-legged patrons must be accompanied by bag-toting two-legged companions who will promptly confiscate droppings and place them within the confines of the aforementioned bag. To make it easier to comply, the trail is marked, at intervals, with wooden boxes (in keeping with the natural theme of course) that house designer disposal bags in earth tones (also in keeping with the natural theme).
The result of this societal interference? On all my walks over the year in which we have lived here I have seen numerous, loveable, four-legged companions, but I have NEVER seen their droppings.
Yep. I live in paradise.
Now if only we could do something about the ducks. . . .
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