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.
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