Silky Josephine, Peter Pan, Harley and I are out on the High Hill, watching the much-talked-about, but not at all pink full moon in snatches through dark and racing clouds. 
     ‘Why is it called a Pink Moon, if it’s not really pink?’ Silky asks.
     She's been dreadfully concerned lately with the science and facts and general workings of things, big and small. 
     ‘It was named the Pink Moon a long time ago,' I tell Silky, 'after a pink flower that blooms this time of year, a phlox, Subulata. We can look it up in your flower book later, if you’d like.’ 
    Silky nods. And for a while we watch the full moon in silence until, ‘Pink would have been nice though,’ she says. ‘I like pink.’

'I think I'm allergic to sunshine,' Silky Josephine tells me this morning. 'Peter Pan is too,' she says, and Pete nods vigorously, his little piglet ears flapping like little piglet wings ...winglets.  

'How's that?' I ask, setting their breakfast down in front of them. 

'It makes us sleepy,' Silky explains. 

I nod. 'A clear sign,' I say. 'You're definitely allergic to sunshine.' 

Silky, possibly not expecting me to so readily agree with her, looks worried, but not nearly as worried as Peter Pan, who looks absolutely stricken with fret. 

'Is there a cure?' Silky asks. 

'There is,' I say, and Silky sighs with relief. Peter Pan, however, has had a cure or two that was, if not, as unbearable as the predicament, nearly so, and has shifted his worry in that direction, shaking now visibly, his breakfast untouched. 

'What is it?' Silky asks, 'The cure?' 

'Sunshine,' I tell her, because it's true. 'The only cure for a sunshine allergy, is more sunshine,' I say, 'Lay in it, roll in it, run in it, play in it. You'll be fine in no time at all.' 

And even Peter Pan, worrisome as he is, likes the sound of this.           

   

‘My tummy hurts,’ Silk Josephine tells me this morning.

‘Mmm hmm,’ I say. ‘I bet it does.’ 

‘Why?’ She moans. 

‘Remember what you ate last night on our walk?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘The cat poop?’ 

Silky doesn’t recall. 

‘How about the rabbit poop, the deer poop or the raccoon’s?’ I ask. 

‘No’ Silk says, shaking her head. ‘I don’t remember.’ 

‘Well your tummy does,’ I say, and from somewhere inside of Silky there comes a rumble and then a squeak. 

Silky groans. 

‘I’ll get you some rice. But tonight, how about we pass on the trail snacks. Okay?’ 

‘Okay,' she says. 'Will you help me to remember though?’

‘I will, Josie. I will.’ 

We are at  home, as many are, and I noted while cleaning that if you have low windows—which we do—and have ever considered accumulating dogs—which we did—I’d advise that your accumulation be of a similar stature—which ours isn’t—so as to concentrate the inevitable nose prints on your low windows, if not to a single pane, then at least to roughly the same elevation.

Stay well. 

Isn't it wonderful how beneath every white duck there are two gloriously orange feet.

It is Autumn. The air is crisp. The sky is clear, with not so much as a speck of bird to mar its blueness. 
   In lieu of clouds, we sit to watch the cows ...Josephine and I ...that move slowly across the adjacent hillside, as if weightless, nudged along by the slightest of unseen breeze.

In the corner of her playpen, as far from the Maple tree as she can be, Josie is huddled in that tiny way she does when she is frightened and wants to be seen by nothing and no one other than myself. 

'What is it Jo?' I ask, leaving my work to go to her. 

'Monster,' is all she can squeeze from her shivers as I let myself in to the pen, 'Monster.' 

And it must be a fearsome monster, too, because I look, kick through the grass, and can't find a thing, and everyone knows the more fearsome the monster, the harder they are to see.