Roused reluctant by the alarm I set; am dressed before any real wakefulness arrives.
Here I am on the doorstep and seem prepared, so Dog and I walk the lanes before it gets too hot.
Over the river a tube of mist thickly sits: I wonder if the river itself is all mist. I wonder what the fish do about that.
Habit kicks into a run halfway round. Dog has that roll to her eye that says she will oblige even though you are clearly wrong.
Perspiration reaches saturation point. Stop running, before I turn to mist.