The clock on the dashboard echoed back across the display 8.21 imperceptibly becoming 8.22 until suddenly it was 9.38 and it was impossible to remember whether the hour had all been lost negotiating a path between the raindrops or if it had been whisked away unexpectedly by some sort of time-stealing highway fairy or if sleep had descended in a flash of lightening and autopilot steered the car through the storm, another four miles or forty miles onward into the distance.
reading the town's master plan, which, alas!, clearly states a preference for development over historic preservation. O! Woe!
weather the deep purple explosion of iris in bloom