In Thrall

This morning's suspicion: that the weather is hungover. The sky is a sludge, very much as though head-aching weather has smeared cloud around, thought 'that will do,' and gone back to bed. A definite air of not being finished, under which I decide to stroll, maybe towards the river, maybe not, because it is that sort of a day. And while strolling with vague intent, I spy a path, an old path to the top of the steep woods. Dog and I vanish in an oesophageal gap.
Dog's eyes shine, borderline demonic, she is on some canine bacchanalia, dancing crazy through the ground cover. I am stomping bramble-gates, sinking in pine needle pile-ups, unhooking from crafty roots. There are openings into the ground, set in the hill, that seem to slide under bedrock, just wide enough to drag a person through. No one knows where I am; this thought comes as a lovely shock. I could disappear. I could live here. It would be simple, in the sense of a matter of keeping oneself alive. That's the loveliness of it. 


klahanie said…
Ah, and through the gentle, innocent eyes of this dog, the wonder of a hideaway brings me a sense of peace.
Thank you for this.

In peace and pawsitivity, Penny the Jack Russell dog :)
Suze said…
I'd miss you.
Lisa Southard said…
Gary and Penny! We once had a legendary Jack Russell named Penny. She would dive after seals- barely a glimmer of an idea of limitations in that dog!!
Suze- I would visit! Looking forward to my next woodland ramble but coming home to the Rayburn and the glorious smell of coffee soon redomesticated me :-)
Suze said…

It's funny to imagine anything redomesticating you. But I can certainly see coffee -- even the very scent of it brewing -- doing the trick. Ambrosia ...
Lisa Southard said…
This is only my version of domestic, which pretty much amounts to making things smell like coffee whilst vaguely living in a house :-)

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