Man and Dog

He walks toward me whistling merrily, old, shabby, and crooked, yet there’s a pliancy of new mown-hay in him, he almost skips. A peppery hound follows; it slows and flops, its muddy eyes meekly stoical. He calls to it - the dog struggles up from a knuckled stiffness, a skewbald tail wags. The Man breezes past me smiling. I think of a jaunty scarecrow-Fred Astaire; his dog struggling to keep up but huffing happily. I walk on pondering: that If time journeys like that for all the young at heart, should I skip more often?