Yesterday afternoon , the day, though dark and subdued seemed convex- a bending outward, anticipation, a hanging by a tender stalk against the seasonal change. A sort of "maybe" day...
Heavy dew collecting after a gentle evening drizzle,
The downpour has not yet had a chance, Plants clinging to the last of sustenance, the last of Autumn.
Dill berries in a tired garden, drooping over the edge of the net fence. The net fence worn and pulled by gravity and insistent deer.
And this is what concave feels like- concave like a bowl, able to hold things,
going inward, more like fog than mist. More enclosed than outward.
Coming home this morning having dropped Dexter off for a little surgery. Concave, holding a bit of worry, a bit of absence. Dexter not warming my feet as I type-
Getting old- and then there is a point where it becomes convex again, I reckon - convex is younger age-concave is old age- convex is older age- a pushing out and forward. That is what is seems.
He will be OK no matter, It is just difficult coming to terms with an aging pup, concave at the moment..
I left him with his favorite lamb and my shirt, he will be fine. The day is thick. The fog will burn off- Dexter will be picked up all better and well for the next go around...