As I was mulling over rabbit recipes, the dog instead noticed a stick and veered off, seizing the dead twig with idiot joy. Rabbit was off the menu:
|Stick! Throw the stick!|
The sun went down behind a distant hawthorn hedge...
Just throw the damn stick!
The near lunar lanscape of Kettleness glowed in the westering sun.
Stuff the sunset! They happen every day. Throw the stick!
The moon was high, the sky blue, despite it being April the hawthorn wasn't yet in full leaf...
Who cares about the moon? Throw the damn stick!
Somewhere on that ridge, around four thousand of years ago, a warrior was laid to rest in a long barrow. The barrow is long gone, ploughed out and reduced to a shadow in the soil visible only from the air.
Yeah, and in between warrioring he probably threw sticks for his dog, too.
I was half a second too slow to fully capture the pheasant that exploded from the grass:
THROW ME A GODDAMN STICK OR I'LL START DROWNING KITTENS!
And on the horizon, the setting sun caught the bridge of a ship in Tees Bay.
I give up. Look what you've done to me, I've started eating grass.