Tumbleglory




Rain flicks over the windowpanes, like the cloud shook the drops off. I am busy tidying things, shaking out the old: there are flicks of ousted cloth and paper across the office floor, spilling over into the bedroom.
Active mode oversteps in the woods, when I slide down the steep bank faster than expected, arriving in a ball of mud and hawthorn. All the splinters come out easily. Wade through wet bluebells, run along the trunk of a fallen tree. Call to the river as it tumbles over rocks: 'I can do this!' Rain falls, ticklish, on the river surface. All of the water has a light sound: it seems glorious to fall, to tumble. 



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