L'aura del Campo

Ystad, Sweden (Hourglass: 9)

One flake and then another. The watchman blew out his thin notes from each side of the church tower. Two sweet notes. It was half till the hour. Oriole slumped on a cold bench with a cat on his lap. He stroked the long black fur. Neither spoke. He brought out his last piece of knäckebröd. The cat didn't bother to open its eyes. It was long past the work hour and little was open. He heard joyful chatter in the distance. The solitude fit his mood as he chewed on the crisp dry rye. He looked up at the bricks of Mariakyrkan, lit for the night. It was a quarter to 10. The watchmen blew three sad notes from his horn in his direction and waved at him. Oriole didn't have the energy to wave back.

© Kåre Enga [175.271] (21.oktober.2018)

137 words as of 10/22

sight — tower, cat, black fur, bricks, lit, wave
smell —
sound — thin notes, chatter
taste — dry rye
touch — cold bench, fur

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