In the cut field, stalks of bone-whitened crop line the horizon. Each is half a shinbone high, so I walk boot soles outstretched, to flat the stems, avoiding stabs and bruises. Dog charges through, unscathed. I am watching the ground; minding my steps, admiring the pattern of tractor tread. Altitude vantage point instinct halts my walk at higher ground: I can see nothing but still cloud and the rolling plain of stalks.
I am planting raspberries when the cloud lets a cascade loose. As long as I dig, I’m not cold. The spade handle is slippery, Dog eats a raspberry root: that’s the worst of it.
Later, however, a slice of my toe goes missing. Smears of footprint record a hobbling journey to the first aid drawer. Rich dark blood sticks like mud, flows like slow water.
|Self inflicted home chiropody incident- no sympathy required. |
But do be surprised by the freshly vacuumed carpet.