That Father Daughter Thing

What a lovely woman she's become!

They walk
most mornings,
father, daughter,
and her dog.

Slowly down the street,
saying little,
if anything,
enjoying the peace
of the early hour
and each other's
quiet company.

He's always got 
a cup of coffee,
she's got the leash
in one hand,
the other snuggly tucked
into the pocket
of her jacket.

The dog's big,
white, and hairy,
likely some kind 
of doodle.

It's well behaved,
lumbering along,
following its nose,
smelling everything,
constantly stopping
to smell literally 
everything.

The daughter patiently
lets the dog 
have its way,
momentarily,
then gives the leash
a gentle tug
and off they go
to the dog's next
whiff of whatever.

The dad's weary eyes
dart from dog 
to daughter 
to the sunrise.

Early December sunrise over the San Francisco bay.

If I were to guess,
from two stories up
in my bay window
looking down the block
onto them walking along,
I'd guess he's reminiscing 
about how many walks
they've had,
how many mornings
they've shared,
how big that dog 
has grown,
what a lovely woman
his daughter's become.