My walk is a special time of day. It’s quiet. Occasionally, I bump into someone—a rider, a hiker, or a dog-walker. But, frequently, I have the trail all too myself. Back there I am far enough from Bear Valley Road to effectively muffle the traffic noise, so the only sounds I hear are maybe neighing horses calling for dinner, an occasional barking dog, and usually the whisper, or whine of the wind in my ears.
On this particular Sunday evening, I was glad that I had rushed a few chores to get started on the walk and stayed out long enough to get home a little late for dinner. The clouds were heavy and low producing a magical light. The swaying grasses—playfully tossing light in every direction, the trees standing watch in the distance, the foothills and mountains rimming the valley, and that expanse of sky—they all make great walking companions.