Footslog



There’s turbulence in the chimney, and what I can see of the fat trunked ash tree is flailing; flails of branch framed by wet squares of glass. I sit at my table, sipping hot super strength coffee, hearing the rhythm of the storm. Dog sighs, curled up and towel fluffed, in her basket.

Earlier, we were stomping through the lanes, under the pelt of the rain. Mr had a futile waterproof layer. It keeps the rain out, he reports, and the sweat in. I show him the body of the fox, lying at the crux of the field entrance; what is left of it now, melting into the grass. We press on, footsteps splashing. I admire the insects still out flying: the dodge of the fingerprint sized white butterflies. 



Comments

The Cranky said…
If I skip the slog do I still get coffee?
Anonymous said…
Sounds like nap time to me.
Lisa Southard said…
Coffee is available without slog- just more satisfying with it! And far too strong to allow napping to occur- I am sitting down to type though.

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