The black dog is restless, backwards and forwards against
the fence, sniffing furiously at unseen, anticipated forces. Sneezing
occasionally and bucking its head. Its breath is warm and rank, meaty.
There, far beyond the gate, a path leads up to the
meadow where daffodils grow in the more sheltered parts, a patch of yellow narcissus.
The flowers nod at their reflection in the stream when it whisks down the
spring rains, heads bobbing in acknowledgement of their own fugitive beauty. Transitory.
The peaty soil beneath the bulbs is rich with winter’s
preserved decay, earthworms diving in and out of thrusted tunnels with blind
glee.
Grey clouds tumble in on themselves like dirty sheets
in a washing machine, rolling and falling over the hills and promising sheets
of rain in the afternoon, maybe sooner. The sun is undecided, casting bursts of
intense heat and then retreating.
Longer blades of grass cow down in the breeze, forming
a network of sacred arches under which spiders hurry themselves to supplication,
forelegs fussing at the disturbance in the air, their dew-laced webs like lacy lingerie
rumours set to entrap unthinking flies.
Before the rain comes in force, its scent is driven
ahead, a petrichor spirit summoned from the soil itself in some mystical vacuum.
It’s a promise all on its own.
Up in the sky, a single leaf spirals – if you could
see such details, you’d note a ladybird that has stowed away on it, bright red
carapace and jet-black dots like the eyes of a demon. It’s heading out there
into the storm without any understanding of where it’ll land.
Perhaps, it won’t land at all.
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