A whisper is still spoken

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.