. . . and the Blustery Day

I leaned into the wind passing by the rose vine fence, hand on my cap.  During rose season (spring? summer?) the fence is a wall of red, but now just brown-green ropes, threading in and out of faded white slats.  I was momentarily surprised by the thorns and watched them as I passed.

I had planned an out and back of two miles, from home, up the hill, through the square, but walked home from shopping instead, empty handed.  It was a nice change, an unplanned route, not quite but closer to a wandering.

My ankle is rusted.


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