Today is grey and windy. A perfect day for naps with strange dreams, or thinking about the little boy in Roald Dahl's The Witches sitting with his Norwegian grandma in front of the fire telling stories and mending socks. It's the kind of day when forgotten smells bring you vivid, unexpected memories and the past seems to want to lure you and wrap you up in a heavy fate-like blanket. I was so lost in these kinds of thoughts and feelings while I was out walking that I gasped when I heard the sound of a big old sycamore leaf rolling along the packed dirt behind me in the lane. I'd expected to see a person or an animal when I turned around. And I especially liked this feather caught in the leaves. I wonder if it was from a hawk or an owl?
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