When we take the dog for a walk, she trots open-mouthed, tongue lolling, and glances behind her every minute or so to check that we're all still there, not just the person holding the leash, but all of us, her pack of humans.
Ice crackling in a plastic cup, silverware rattling, a stream of tables with people chattering.
A dog tied outside the grocery store lurches to the end of his leash with eyes popping as each person who isn't his owner emerges.
The river is pink, gray, and yellow as the day fades.
Her bright anecdotes are a barely adequate cover for her unease.
When she takes my passport photo, she tells me not to smile, so of course I smile and have a hard time stopping.
It's a sinuous trail. It dips in and out of the trees, bumps against the water, then flings itself inland through tall grass.