The ‘Politician.’
I woke early, the day still dark, the street lamps, bent and crooked, peered into puddles of light, searching, it seemed, for reflections not of their own, it was still and silent, no traffic, no birds, just the soft and gentle dance of early morning rain.
And she was there again.
As if waiting.
As if listening.
Waiting for me to pass.
For it was warm. Damp. Nobody except us on the flooded silver silence of the avenue.
She’’d clearly been standing on the left in the shelter of the broken wall for a while. Huddled under the apple tree, still laden with the bounty of this mid October day yet to come. The apples hanging in clusters of nodding heads in the hidden shadows and dark.
There was little wind. And the little there was, ruffled her pointed coat swept smooth and back, for I was no danger to her. She knew.
Suddenly, and it was suddenly, for she stopped me still and left the shadows of branches and trees and walked or rather waddled in a modestly dignified manner across my path, sniffing and sighing as she went, blustering and blathering like the old seasoned politician of dawn she was, and followed the curb on the other side of the road and left the darkness behind.
It was raining heavily now.
The drops spattered against my hood, dripping upon my rucksack and began running like tears down my smiling face.
Dawn was just a few Hedgehog footsteps away.
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