In 1937 the town corgi was crunching the feathers, while tight balls of knuckle rolled in the laned tables of the Packard house, and on the overlooked floors. A flip-flip fiery phone ad sang through the radios, inciting to strenuous contingency the woodlice, Dysdera crocata, sowbugs, gnats, sidereals, and other composite aerials. When the corgi swallowed and looked round, moons had triangulated the crest of the house, cusp and broom and rack.

Stones lay along the three and a half miles the lane parted through the scrub-land, where dwelt the experienced Rhiners, and in-hat wrights who issued the discourses in ferule. The square cross-section of every hair on the corgi’s back was felt by the rough, dimpled underside, the palate of the morning in 1937.

2023/01/26 (Catching up) #DailyWrittenOOM