Up the hill, early morning, chasing the thread of the words in a story. I took two stones. One small, one bigger and the first I placed in a nook in the rock where I hoped it would not be found.
But The White Cat found it, while I was writing, decided it was his precious, carried it around in his mouth like a dog with a ball.
When time came to move on I rescued and returned it.
We walked off, but not before the three posed for the camera.
Coming down off the hill I found the strangest thing, where the lichen rock was taken. A small tomb, with a clean skull. I returned it and am thinking how to answer this question. But first I need to discover who this fine creature was.
Ravens flew around, close, so close, and on the hill someone rested, with a full crop. Peregrine or kestrel? Couldn’t decide.
On across to where the ponies have hollowed a place in the shelter and here I left the other stone, where the hawthorne grows, and ivy tangles the boulders.
For a while I wrote more then walked back over the top of the hill, past the stones mapped by the cartography of lichens and moss.
Home now. Time to gather up and stitch in the threaded pieces of story….