Attempt not to Vomit

Spent a chunk of today dealing with paperwork. Remedied by sitting in the sun, reading some Wyndham and throwing down some bits and pieces:

I read my book at the bottom of the broad rut, with its copse of trees, redolent with the raw tang of raked and fertile earth, pollen and the leaves turning on the trees, not quite ready to fall on their own. There is a bruise, broad and brown by my elbow, from where I bedded down on my headphones.

When the wind blows, a scattered few yellowed leaves tumble from the canopy and, as they leave the shade of the treeline, twist upward in the afternoon sun.

A single strand of a spider’s web twists on the breeze, a silvered silken string in the sunlight, a softened score across an azure summer sky.