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.