He's staring out the window again, and always looks so miserable like this. His whole body is sunken into a dejected slump, eyes open but not alert, sighing slightly with each breath out. He's staring out at the world out there, just waking up: the rough-barked tree trunks, the sparse shoreline bushes with leaves fluttering in the light breeze, the birds hopping from branch to branch, the chipmunks racing for cover between rocks and roots. The rain has picked up, and is pouring down relentlessly again, straight down and heavy. And with everything wet and it too early for adventures (according to me, because I haven't had enough coffee yet, nor gotten dressed), he's relegated to staring, and sighing, wishing that he could be wild and free, out there chasing chipmunks and breathing it all in, his snout pushed into the dark moist earth.
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