Sylvie had always been something of a fast driver—_no_, a driver with purpose. But that was par of the course in the Big Apple. You either bobbed and weaved or plowed your way through rush-hour traffic to escape the inevitable gridlock.

Today, however, different. Today, Sylvie drove with a razor-sharp fastidiousness. Almost mechanical in how she navigated from lane to lane, smooth as silk in cha...

Mud underfoot, a scrim on my trainers.

Weak finger of sunlight skims on the pond; penetrates, exposes bank below.

Reflection like smoked glass.

Fields painted in shades of newling greenery and patchy browns. Trees stretch upward like grasping hands, arthritic.

Gravel twists and winds like a gray ribbon full of snarls.

Pale sky above, thin wisps of white against blue.

I wonder if the fi...