A Solo Walk and the Things That Surface

 A slow walk alone, noticing birds, turtles, willows, and the quiet thoughts that rise when the leash stays at home.

A Walk Down to the Crow Without Dixie

Today I walked down to the Crow by myself — no dog tugging the leash, no black shadow pacing beside me. Just me, my thoughts, and the space around me. It felt different, quieter in a way I don’t always let myself sit with.

The river was doing its usual thing, sending ripples across the surface like it was breathing slow. I watched a poplar on the far bank sway like it was waving at me. Blackbirds in every shade and pattern flicked through the reeds, robins hopped around like they owned the place, and yes — even turtles showed up for the moment.

I sat on the land ties that hold the path together, letting the stillness settle in. Ants crawled over the wood, busy with whatever ants are always busy with. A robin flew overhead and dropped a little mid‑air gift — nature’s sense of humor, I guess. From where I sat, I could see the willows bending over the wetland and the deadwood scattered like old stories left behind.

An older couple passed by, and we exchanged a simple hello. Nothing deep, nothing heavy — just a small human moment in a quiet place.

On the way back, I stopped at Save‑On‑Foods and grabbed a tuna sandwich and some berries. A bit of sunshine in food form. It felt right after a walk that wasn’t about distance or pace, just presence.

I don’t often walk without Dixie. She’s a joy, even when she gets a bit toxic or stubborn. But today I needed the space. And somewhere in that quiet, I found myself thinking about Finn — how I never really responded well to losing him, how those memories still sit in the corners of days like this.

Walking alone didn’t fix anything, but it gave me room to breathe. Sometimes that’s enough.

A Walk Down to the Crow Without Dixie

Today I walked down to the Crow by myself — no dog tugging the leash, no black shadow pacing beside me. Just me, my thoughts, and the space around me. It felt different, quieter in a way I don’t always let myself sit with.

The river was calm, sending slow ripples across the surface like it was breathing. I watched a poplar on the far bank sway like it was waving at me. Blackbirds in every shade flicked through the reeds, robins hopped around like they owned the place, and a couple of turtles were sunning themselves near the dock. I even gave them a little direction in my head — “not the nest, not the nursery, go to the dock.” Whether they heard me or not, who knows. Maybe there were more tucked near the hatchery.

I sat on the land ties that hold the path together, letting the stillness settle in. Ants crawled over the wood, busy with their tiny missions. A robin flew overhead and dropped a mid‑air poop — nature’s sense of humor. From where I sat, I could see the willows bending over the wetland and the deadwood scattered like old stories left behind.

An older couple passed by, and we exchanged a simple hello. Nothing heavy, just a small human moment in a quiet place.

I drank my iced coffee while I sat there, shaking the melting ice around the cup. Every sip felt like a little hit of cold sunshine. My doctor would probably shake his head and remind me I’ve got bloodwork to do — cholesterol doesn’t care about nice weather or peaceful walks. But today, the iced coffee won.

On the way back, I stopped at Save‑On‑Foods and grabbed a tuna sandwich and some berries. A bit of brightness to carry home.

I don’t often walk without Dixie. She’s a joy, even when she gets a bit toxic or stubborn. But today I needed the space. And somewhere in that quiet, I found myself thinking about Finn — how I never really responded well to losing him, how those memories still sit in the corners of days like this.

Walking alone didn’t fix anything, but it gave me room to breathe. Sometimes that’s enough.

me showing teeth... smiling down here in the wet land