I am not a dog owner, but my oldest has a dog now she adores, so walking and hiking with her I’ve discovered the world of the dog walkers. Midday in full sunlight, I wander along the lake. Great puddles pool on the ice. White-throated sparrows sing late winter songs. I head through the woods from lake to library through a few inches of soft snow. I’m wearing shoes more than boots, and crumbles of icy slush soak through my socks. At the library I sit on the steps and empty my socks of ice bits and shreds of cedar greens sprinkled in the woods from the last windstorm.

A little white dog runs up to visit, curious. As I bang out my shoes to the dog’s fascination, the dog’s owner and I chat about the birds and the sunlight, and then she leaves her dog with me and heads into the library. The little creature and I ruminate about the neighbors’ cat sitting in the window. Beyond the paved driveway, mud oozes in the sunlight. Sure sign of spring.

Last, The Writing Life column in Hippocampus ran my essay this month. The essay includes:

Without wealth — as most of us are — a creative life is a dicey proposition…