Januariad

Claudia makes her way through the park as it sinks into dusk. Somewhere in her fifties, she walks with an assured step. Not light, but not inelegant. Her clothing is modern and sensible—a bright red windsheeter with layers of fleece visible at the collar. Eight-holed walking boots, thick cotton leggings. A purple beanie is pulled down over her ears, covering her hair. She crests a hill and walks down the far side, skirting woods. She is flanked closely by two enormous wolfhounds.

The dogs hug to her legs, ambling with a heavy-limbed gracefulness. Neither is leashed, but Claudia’s hands hover splayed at her waist, occasionally teasing the thick grey curls of their long backs. She sings softly and continuously, a wordless tune that keeps the dogs in her nimbus.

One wolfhound is old, the other nearing fully grown. From time to time the pup pulls left or ups his pace, moving gently away from Claudia’s side. Before he is gone the full length of himself she bellows his name. George! The roar she lets has twice the weight of her small body. The dog shows no alarm, but drops gently back to her flank, and Claudia resumes humming. In this place, with these beasts, she has total dominion. The plains beyond the three are ranged with deer grazing and locking antlers. Both hounds raise their head at the sound, but pad onwards.