Arcs

Today I went walking at Wicken Fen with Pluvialis, a muddy, milky, gently lit afternoon with two cups of tea. Pluvialis angled Debonaire Peugeot gingerly into a squish-grassy spot and two foof-footed ponies came over to say hello, side-eyeing me with soft, cautious baby browns while I scratched under their manes.

Widgeon and teal, gadwall upending, roe deer and cattle and a pheasant under the tree, a heron's face uplifted like the saved among the reeds. Tits bouncing Spy vs Spy in the undergrowth, a reed bunting skirting the puddles.

Sausage sandwich and a bag of crisps, ketchup out of a sachet.

Later on the floor of her study in Pluvialis listened to me try to chalk a book-shape out of the handful of flinty shards in my hands and I had many thoughts and wept tears of terror and longing and she asked questions slowly and patiently and the Birdoole scrunched apple and sang the ABC song in his birdy-mind.