First
edge of day pokes at the dark, first tendrils of winter creep in and pinch. Two
forms of crane flies are appearing all over the house: six pointed star shapes
stuck on surfaces, wiry dead maquettes rolling in drafts. They aren’t any trouble,
unlike the houseflies, who care not, they never did have a sense of unwelcome.
The
Rayburn is lit. The hob kettle makes a whistle like a deflating balloon.
Big
house spider scouts the kitchen. Tea steam gets its soothe on.
Day
spreads out wide and sunny. Blackberries picked, hot from a suntrap, burst on a
surprised tongue. Heat haze haloes the stalky horizon; draws us out from shade
and provision, to walk right through it. Two jets holler so low; I check my
hair is not on fire. Dog’s tail skips one beat. We kind of laugh at each other.
Last
night, the rain’s static hiss on the windscreen, it seemed that winter would
just turn up in a sudden lump. But here we are, skipped back, wide and sunny.
Comments
Nice, Lily! I just stopped by a for a bit of wishbone soup. :0) Good stuff!