I march now, dodging turds pushing out sighs into the wind. I head for the rocks, three men squatting on Top Field without purpose. No-one has ever questioned them. For a moment, the irony of newly fertilised earth slows me down then I spot wheeling birds over a dry spot, snort at their misfortune not to be seagulls circling hot chips. Round the edges where Sunday brambles caught the little one sunk in their claws because he’s The Late, The Last I step it up a gear, try to outpace birthdays which make good jokes head for the spire, where the field turns itself towards the squatters leads bored dog walkers and sweaty women to the view. I perch on the right-hand man. Wonder who would see if I rolled down the field like a kid a pig in shit. For a while I study my own eye-floaters, try to recall when I first started nudging my specs away to read at night. I caw back when a crow mocks me. Back past the pond teasing for something to break its surface I toss in stone after stone after stone, rage at the wild-eyed scarecrow but miss wait for the church spire to pick me off like an olive.
Marie Little lives near fields with her husband, sons and a daft cat. She writes in the shed with buckets of tea. Marie has work featured in: Ink Sweat and Tears, Cool Rock Repository and The Cannon’s Mouth. She/Her. She is on Twitter @jamsaucer.