Can You Find Murphy?

Quiet weekend in eastern Washington.  There are signs of Spring.  New leaves on the sage, a few buds of balsam, snow in tiny melting patches on northern facing slopes, little bits of green grass sprouting up through the straw.  

Spring means lots of work.  This weekend?  Burning rubbish.  

Sage finds the snow patches, rolling, digging, frolicking, reminding me that I didn't get her out as much this year as usual.  No long slogs up Commonweath Basin.  

Murphy, ever enchanted with Spring, follows her nose.  Parts of a deer rib left by the cougar (although, not much, which alternatively reminds me how efficient predators are and sends shivers down my spine over how thoroughly cougars ravish their prey), scents of quail and coyote, bear scat emerging from being buried by the snow.  Murphy checks it all out.  Then, she finds a place in the sun.  One eye on me, as I work, and one eye dozing off.  Ever conscious of being photogenic, this time she settled near the "honey bucket."

I am grateful knowing I will have many more weekends with Murphy, watching her, nose in the air, follow some smell.  That I will worry: what is she getting into?  Reminding me what she was like as a pup.  That she will have more days finding a patch of sun in the grass, letting the heat sooth her hips.  I sense she still enjoys days of being outside.  If only there were a toaster.

Murphy's day.