The dog pauses to sniff the mild night air beneath a young, denuded tree, and I stand, hold her limp leash and examining the eye-level branches.
Spring has come a bit early, and despite the light chill, the branches have pushed out new, reddish growth at the tips, with small buds bulging on the ends. They have the faintest layer of fuzz, they're so new.
I suppress the strong urge to bite the delicious looking tips of the branches off and chew them up in some strange, atavistic winter-killing ritual, and the dog and I turn and walk home.
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