The Tree of Life

Last night the mist was missing. The sky was full of stars instead, and much taller than I’d remembered it. I wasn’t sure what this morning would bring, and I’m still not sure. It is the exact pivotal point between fine rain and mist, so for want of a more definitive word, I call it cloud. Mr has gone to tackle the shopping, while I have taken on the washing up and walking Dog, and, just to be flash, I have also wrestled a pile of unclean clothes into the washing machine. While the dishes drip-dry and the laundry tumbles, Dog walking is done. We discover Mr’s latest work, a neat wall of cut alder logs. They share a colouration, but each log is subtly different in size and twists of shape, a pleasing irregularity within the context of conformity, which I point out to Dog. In response she requests that I throw the ball. The rest of the tree is already up at the house, brought by wheelbarrow and strong leg muscles. The roots of the tree are in the hedge, bringing in nourishment to make new shoots.


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