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.