The smell of freshly cut grass in mid-October, summer’s scent, a lover’s fragrance. The clouds more like spring than fall, texture of sheep’s wool. The grass is wet and the cat walks upon it daintily. I spilled half my beer into it, imagined the earth just grinned a bit.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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8 Responses to

  1. kingmidget says:

    Hold on a sec … you spilled beer?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. ksbeth says:

    here’s to the earth laughing

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Tish Farrell says:

    Cheers to you and the earth, Bill! Here in Wenlock the farmer’s just gone by and mowed the field edge behind the house, so I have happenstance scent effects to go with your words.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Dave Ply says:

    And the cat strolled about daintily, sniffing around for a whiff of catnip within the smells of fresh cut grass, and finding none sampled instead from an unexpected patch of spilled beer.

    Liked by 1 person

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