Yesterday's walking took a spell in the river, wading
out neck deep, to stand; eye level with a swimming Dog; watching the blip of
fish snatching gnats; the linger of centric ripples; under the snaky outcrops
of root. The water was invisible: was only the reflection of tree and sky: was
only the beads on bared legs.
Yesterday's wet clothes sway on the washing line.
A dry walk, today, for no particular reason. Heat
speeds up molecules: slows a walk. We average an ambling pace, stopping our
legs once for strawberry picking, once for rose petals. We dare not be too
still though, lest we be baked like terracotta, left decorative but brittle.
At home it is pleasant to sit, flip flops kicked off,
in the umbrella shadow: a mistake to slip those dark soled sandals back on.
Cartoon hopping in hot flip flops wakes the cat, who; of course; has been
sleeping all day, content in the shade of a garden table and the cooling roots
of grass.
Comments
Worse than walking on hot tar bubbles from the almost ancient country lanes hereabouts...
Ha! I never thought of that.
The image of the cartoon flip-flop dance brought a smile to my face.