Blossom, my old and faithful hound, and I have our morning routine. The dawn cracks, and I rise. We tread our path to the park to play ball. She’s getting on in years, and now the throws are shorter, the chase slower. The walk to the park is pleasant, but by the time we hit the street, I’ve been awake for 10 minutes, so I’m largely oblivious to my surroundings. Today, I was more alert than usual and came across this owl while walking to the park. Later, we wandered back beneath the beautiful palms; I found something at the base of one—a magazine, its pages curled with dampness. Blossom sniffed at the thing once and moved on, but I lingered as if the world offered some inscrutable symbol meant only for me.