The golden spindles of her hair rustle through the rough tips of his fingers. His hands, cracked and pale, catch the strands in the groves of his arched prints. She pants and lies flat, with a jingle of chains and tags, on the ground below his feet. The cold barren earth is firm with brown crumbles of dirt and starchy leaves. Dark vibrant reds mix with mellow yellows lying beside her, complementing her hair. A white alpine chair cradles the man’s figure. The man; dressed in big brown boots, slick pants, and a coat and hat that match. Tilting his head up and back, like a balloon with a pin whole slowly releasing tension and deflating, to touch the high backed chair. Letting him rest his head to gaze up through the low hanging branches of a dog-wood right up to the tops of oaks. A stiff breeze pushes through the canopy of changing leaves, swooping through and around the branches. With his hands grasping a steaming cup of frothy cocoa a light glow radiates up his arm, and then taking a swig down his gullet settling in the warming basin of his stomach, he stares out over the still pond. The wisp and flick of his arm is audible over the lingering rustle of seasonal arbor as he flung a stick out toward the fence. It span tail over tip with a flurry of activity as it bounces off the dirt. Her head lifts mid throw, and she promptly takes a leap upward and bounds toward it. Trotting back she drops her head and lays it next to his outstretched hand. He pauses and let out a sigh of freedom and serenity, holding every iota of this precious moment in his highest appreciation. He lets out a soft “good girl” as his hand falls back to her side. The golden spindles of her hair rustle through the rough tips of his fingers.