A few starlings in the late afternoon sun.
In the half darkness, as I walk home following the broad, central path, through the Grove, a rubber ball races past me, hard along the ground. A few steps further on, I spot the dog for whom the ball is intended racing off to left and right of the path into deeper shadows, in pursuit of it. It imagines that its owner has thrown it wide rather than straight ahead, if it imagines anything at all. Or does the ball, as I thought on first seeing it, really have a life of its own?
"You have a great thought, you're always on your own," says the green grocer to the woman behind me in the queue, apropos of what I can not hear. But it seems a noteworthy aperçu.
Dog, ball gestalt.
You remind me that saw in shop the other daya weasel ball that shoots around all over the place of its own accord. No one even near it. Maybe yours was one of those...
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