South

This morning, we get up and are out the door by 6:40.

Our thirty-minute walk takes us up our street, around the block, and through the far reaches of our neighboorhood. We don’t talk much. Chelsea strains at her leash, clawing the ground for traction and staying as far ahead as we’ll allow.

The morning air is still and crisp. We see very few people today; most are inside, having breakfast before speeding off to the office. Occasionally, we walk past a driveway just as the Man of The House, wearing a starched shirt and tie, drags a can of garbage out to the curb — an event Chelsea delights in.

Just minutes from home, we hear an odd and distant sound. Chelsea notices it first. She pauses, tilts her head, and points, frowning at the sky.

And then we see them: a flock of geese, arranged in a tight “W” formation. They appear in the north, just a few dozen yards above the rooftops. They honk constantly, crying out to each other and stretching their long necks as they lunge through the air above our heads.

Chelsea stands stock-still, open-mouthed with awe, until they disappear again.

We resume our walk: three of us, on a winter morning, headed home.