A fit looking grey haired man runs round the perimeter path of The Grove. He strides at a steady pace. He is running faster than the average jogger, easily and with great power. At the end of the circuit, he looks at his watch and starts again. Round and round he goes and consults his watch every time he completes the circle. He is setting himself a target, competing with himself.
Rain drops line up under the top bar of the black iron gate at the entrance to The Grove... like beads on an abacus.
It is raining here today, too. I noticed earlier that raindrops line the underside of a dogwood branch near the back door. Since I am without camera now, I thought I would use words to describe the beauty of the drops, strung like a necklace under the limb.
Then I come to see what you have written today and discover you have painted the description better than I could have hoped to do...and in far fewer words.
Was there a degree of ostentation in the way he looked at his watch? I make sure everybody in the pool knows I've just done my mile against the clock by plungering my stopwatch melodramatically then leaving the area without a backward glance. Just broken 51 minutes for the first time quite healthily (50 min 21 seconds) and felt I had to tell someone in the changing room. Unfortunately the only person there was a misanthrope from the West Riding. Le Grand Seigneur, est-il ironist?
Thanks dear Crow. I try for brevity, a quality shared with raindrops I suppose.
BB I can't believe that there wasn't. In such circumstances it is difficult to imagine looking at a watch covertly as one does during a sermon or a dinner party, which you are longing to leave.
Fifty minutes 21 seconds, my word!
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