Last Day at Whitetail Ridge

Ron and Sheba and the little island that looks like Tom Sawyer ought to appear on his raft at any moment.

Ron and Sheba and the little island that looks like Tom Sawyer ought to appear on his raft at any moment.

Today is chilly.  Ron is gone to town to search out a good take out dinner.  He took Sunny with him.

I’m sitting inside the Casita watching the reflection of the sunset turn the sky and the water a serene mauve.

Earlier Sheba and I went for a walk.  I deliberately left the camera behind, wanting to soak up the scenery and Sheba’s companionship without distraction.

We sauntered uphill and downhill, enjoying the play of light on the trees and over the water.  Noting sunbeams that turned the brown carpet of fallen leaves to golden magic. Inhaling the faint scent of a distant campfire.  The almost deserted campground was completely silent.

We detoured to the water’s edge so Sheba could wade and lap up her fill of water.

I felt as though I were saying goodbye to something significant, but couldn’t put my finger on anything definitive.  Maybe just saying goodbye to another autumn as we head into winter.

When we got back, I was warm enough from the walk to sit outside with Sheba for a little while.  I treated her to a dinner of her favorite canned dog food instead of the usual mix of kibble and canned.

Then I watched the setting sun blaze through the leaves, seemingly illuminating them from within.

Now the mauve is fading from the water and twilight descends.

It’s been a beautiful trip.

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