Wind sings and anything loose in the cut hedges keeps
time. Ferns dance at the edge of the quarry pool. Wind fingers trail water,
fuzzle reflected trees. Over the river the shelter in the cow field slams a
loose roof panel. In the lane a young fox watches; stolid, legs planted, fur
thickly smooth, eyes bright: remembers itself, flees sheepish through stubby
thorns. Dog runs, returns, sparkling, dripping mud.
The fat trunked ash lets the wind loosen dead wood to drop later, unexpected.
After the walk the interruptions parcel up:
Mum, I need a- it's okay I got one!
Where's the internet gone?
Can we have a lift? Not yet- oh, never mind.
This pasta is delicious!
Yay, internet!
Parcel: each one takes space and time, is neither entirely unexpected nor a
surprise.
Simultaneous: tap type check add tweak.
Soup By Volume Two pours out.
Not dissimilar to the first, of course. But every day has its own flavour.
Today is basil, garlic, red wine. Perhaps a
hint of coffee.
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