He’s in the lane again, looking across the unmown meadow, probably noting that the ash tree has blown over. Does he think I can’t see him? So few people come up this way, nobody would hear if I screamed. He pauses, and I hold my breath—will he? But he changes his mind and walks out of sight.
Time was when I’d have run outside, calling—wait! I fold away the memories, let silence settle like an old dog.
“I write because I have to do something with all these words.” – the author