Footprints

Happiness is a transient thing. You can’t press it between the pages of a book or imprison it in a bottle. But here we have the sharp-edged footprints left by our dog, as she raced, frantic with joy, across an empty beach.

The dog calmed down. The footprints will be wiped away by the wind or the tide. But I still have this picture. And the memory of her exhilaration, which has been made more concrete by the act of writing this small essay.