from Huntingdonshire Codices Dry sorrel, teasel, grasses flattened by the flood. The faint beginnings of a gibbous moon. A tiny bird crosses the path (last year’s leaves and mud) to the river, lower now, but still flowing at a pace. The old sluice is making a noise, insists there’s a race to be run, though it was lost long ago by His Grace. A well-dressed scarecrow’s stretched-out arms pretend to approach the US Army Air Force strip behind the Folly, the ghost of a duchess watching him land. All the world and its dog is out…
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