Monday morning, Drumcarrow.

The damp from last nights rain seeps into my old shoes numbing toes as the wind finds my fingers, stiffening the joints making it difficult to draw. But I am here and that feels fine enough. I sit in one of the iron age hut circles still visible with my back tucked between rocks that make up the surviving boundary wall. Rain spots the paper as a hand not quite my own scootles over the terrain with a crayon, looking, listening to the song of skylarks in the fields below. A bumblebee sits to my side, its wings gently folded against it’s body. Rabbit’s fur caught on a gorse branch smokes in the wind that whips my hair toward a crow and the horses watch on. A dog barks on a farm.

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