The Girl and the Great Dane

across the road and onto the pavement, feet hitting wet concrete in that old familiar wanderer rhythm, and then I see her — walking dead ahead, just out of reach, a stranger I’ve already named Kate in the wild imagination of my mind.

beside her strides her great Dane, that beautiful beast I’ve christened Claude Debussy, both of them gliding through the afternoon like figures stepped out of some half-remembered song.

imagined names, and a butterfly twitches nervously beneath my autumn clothes, fluttering against the ribs, alive with the electric possibility of it all.

and then the downpour hits — sudden, silver sheets drumming the world awake. rivers race through cracks in the damaged asphalt, rushing, rushing, while the sun already fights back, pulling moisture up from the earth in soft ghosts of steam beneath the great oak on East Street.

we stroll on through the fallen leaves, crunchy underfoot like crispy bacon in a morning skillet, the gravel popping and shifting beneath us, everything alive and singing in the wet.

across the grassy verge, thick clumps cling to boots and trainers like old friends refusing to let go, and over in the meadow, the Jersey cows stand ponderous and dreaming, daisies and buttercups scattered at their feet in bright, careless constellations.

the air smells of rain-soaked soil and distant woodsmoke, the whole scene breathing slow and deep. time, I think, heart hammering with that nervous butterfly, time to cross the distance and introduce myself to Kate.

her name isn’t Kate.
I haven’t crossed the road yet.
time to say hello.