Small Stones: Week Two

This challenge by Fiona and Kaspa at Writing Our Way Home is to produce a brief piece of writing each day which engages fully the present moment.

Here are my Small Stones from my journal during the second week of January.

Nine

Incense smoke doesn’t curl if there is no breath of air, it flows straight upwards like an impossible thin stream of water.

Ten

A lumpy shape lies torn in the middle of the sunlit road. Reddish fur coated with deeper red. A pointed face. A suggestion of bared teeth. I’m driving too fast to tell if it is dog or fox. Which is probably what the the driver who hit it was doing.

Eleven

The little girl’s full pink skirt flips in joyful patterns as she skips, hops and jumps her way along the road, one long sock to the knee, the other around her ankle.

Twelve

I scatter the damp brown compost through my fingers into the plastic-lined basket then nestle the purplish hyacinth bulbs comfortably into their dark bed. I tuck them in with more compost until even their green buds are hidden. They’ve been put to bed so that they can wake up.

Thirteen

The steering wheel is smooth and hard under my hands, pocked with tiny pinpricks in the matt surface, ample bumpy spaces on the inner rim for my fingers to grasp.

Fourteen

Today there are two small stones, both from a walk I took this morning. The difference is that the first was a moment of deliberate engaging in conciousness, in the second I had no choice. It was an interesting contrast.

Their cheery reds, yellows, greens and blues half hidden by sombre tarpaulins, the narrow-boats huddle together in the freezing marina, dreaming of spring.

My right foot slips: the fall happens in slow motion. I stagger to keep my feet but I’m on a downward slope. I have absurdly ample time to turn sideways and grab a solid low bush. I embrace it, thankful for my padded jacket and long gloves. I glance around: no-one saw. Struggling to my feet, I walk on as if nothing has happened.