We rounded the far end of the field, and walked into the copse of trees at the westerly edge of the expanse, my husband ambling alongside, and the dog snuffling just ahead.
“Um, Hon… is that, um… a walrus, or just a dead tree? My husband queried, pointing ahead. I followed his gaze to a stand of trees in the distance. Nestled in it was a large mass of brown, rising from the ground and glinting with shimmery whiteness on its surface.
“Um…..I…uh…don’t think its a walrus……but I don’t know what it is,” I answered as we slowly advanced toward the hillock, dog in tow. Closing the distance, the identity of knoll became evident. It was a pile of fresh dark soil – presumably for the nearby ballfields – shrouded with a white tarp, remnants of last night’s rain pooling in the folds and glinting in the sun.
“So glad to know its not a wayward walrus in these here parts,” I teased my husband.
“You never know,” he smiled.
Rounding the last corner we headed for home, walking with Ollie
through the first green sparkle of spring.