The day is a reflection of me; fields are contemplatively quiet, sky is grey and blue. Mud buffers each boot. I even wonder what to write of, today, and I know that isn't how this works. Words find me, I am their roost. In my mind, a dull settling. Overhead, a pheasant, thoroughly annoyed. I see the ornamental silhouette, too late for the camera to be pulled to action. Perfect time to remember the camera. Dog appears, another perfect timing, wagging her tail as though to check her brilliant diversionary plan has worked. The illusion of collusion. Now I am smiling, not thinking, work turns back to play. Here is light, here is shadow, here is the vast spread of turned earth, the warm fertile loosened earth.
Run my hands through dried grass seeds, a shimmy of a noise. The beginning of music, I think, where things touch, and speak to the air of that meeting. 


  1. But only if I remember to let them!
    You know when you work so hard on something, or several things all at once, and however much you reason that when the work is done you just sit back for a while, you kind of expect some fireworks? I've been like that most of today.
    Hope your words are finding you :-)

  2. I love your writing more than......bird wings flashing in the sun.

  3. I love your comments more than... the steam on my first coffee :-)


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