We walked as far as the train track, then the sky opened up, laying down a bed of rolling thunder and a sheet of rain that would have soaked us to the bone.
Byron pulled me into a bush and we sat, watching the flood, sharing my coat and an unexpected moment.

Half an hour, we spent, waiting for the cold rain to pass.
It passed, and we poked our noses out of our bush, to continue where we'd been interrupted.

Half a mile down the hill, we came across a pond, and it looked nothing like the springtime it was supposed to be.
Autumnal fallout still littered the scene, which was now dripping and cold. The light was cold, too. And the wind.

I pulled my coat tighter, and Byron, wrapped in his own fur coat, didn't complain, choosing, instead, to explore the surrounding trees and bushes, looking for a stick to chew.

And that was spring.