Rain drums on the steel roof and slides down to cascade into the forest below. The man reclines in his old chair and runs his fingers across the worn grain. He pulls a fat rollie from his mouth and bellows smoke. He scratches his nose. Steam rises lazily from his coffee. His breakfast plate is empty besides the smears of grease. There is no music besides the patter of the rain. What a perfect day, he thinks.
Paddy Dobson
21st May 2021