Rain patters the leaves over our heads. Dog runs, on
scent based urges, round my general position. Brambles are closing up the path:
cotton leggings were a mistake. Everything smells freshly damped, even the
river, even the stale quarry pools. On a shale beach a feathered jewel waits
for me to admire it. A duck's gift, I think, and carry it home, and it is
tucked behind the Buddha figure that lives in my car.
Later, after work, instead of driving back through the
main street, me, Buddha, the feather, we take the snaky single track under the
willow, over the bridge, along the side of the crooked castle. Windscreen
wipers clear the view: the day's light stoops under the blanketing night: I
couldn't sing any louder no matter how I may try.
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