This morning, a chicken stole into our house via the broken cat flap. I cornered it in the bathroom and carried it back outside. I think that Cat had ripped off the duct tape but not that she had expected the appearance of the chicken. Cat and Dog both sat in the kitchen with saucer eyes, aghast at the interloping.
Cold and bright, the day pops up, takes me to the beach. Two horses gallop about; as many dogs as people; seabirds and crows steady in a bracing onshore blast; no chickens. Dog follows her tennis ball through waves and pools and the toothsome castellations of rock. My eyes follow Dog: over a row of molars and juts of incisor and around the chunky buttress. Press my feet over soft sand. The beach graduates from fine particles to rockfall slabs. Small white pebbles: the teeth of the drowned: salt polished, scatter evenly throughout.