A Brush for a Tail

How startling… I prophesied a storm, “literally”, predicting the inhospitable nature of the weather that arrived without warning or schedule last night. How did I manage that? Is it even possible? It must be, somehow, because I did it unaided.

Maybe it was the headache that plagued me throughout the preceding day? The air was oppressively close. But there were no storm clouds to speak of and the day’s forecast was good.

Whatever the case (and there’s no need to dwell on it; for little can be gained from such aimless conjecture), at a little after midnight, the wind picked up and I felt myself being blown, first gently and then roughly, while lying in my bed. Over the next fifteen minutes it grew progressively stronger, forcing me to hide beneath the sheets. I must then have slept, for the next thing I knew it was 1.30 am and there was heavy rain outside the window and lightening and thunder above my head. Initially in the hills, a good few miles away, it rolled steadily closer and closer, until it was situated directly overhead. It was kind of terrifying. I covered my face, scrunched up my eyes and imagined myself elsewhere: somewhere safe and quiet and calm and peaceful.

I guess I slept again and soundly, for suddenly it was morning and I was aware of today. Happily, it is dry and the sun is out. But for some reason, instead of reducing the humidity in the air, it feels even more oppressive and close, almost claustrophobic, in fact. My headache has disappeared though, and for that I am thankful.

In light of the predicting I managed to achieve yesterday, which was indeed profound, I thought I would try to write again to see where, if anywhere, it leads me. I have decided upon a simple free writing exercise, for, if nothing else, it will stretch my creative muscles in a fun and thoughtful way and, as we all know, all stretching is beneficial. After all: the more we stretch, the more supple we become; and the more supple we become, the more we are then able to achieve, (or so the fitness gurus say).

A Brush for a Tail

The sound of water catches my attention:
loud splashes, indulgent and joyful;
indicative of someone having a good time.

Inspection reveals an intruder,
large and hairy,
with a brush for a tail and dusters for feet.

We stare at one another,
each caught trespassing,
he on my property,

me on his improper behaviour,
and for a few short seconds we remain transfixed,
both trapped inside the moment.

And then,
without apology or warning,
he turns and flees,

out across the field,
up over the wall,
away, into nothing.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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