Sleeping outside

I thought I woke to the smell of young green apples, and the touch of arched feather grass around my shoulders. We were sleeping outside, as we sometimes did in the spring, a drift of blankets by our feet, or far afield. I turned to touch her, and remembered she was gone.

There was a man standing over me, jabbing me with a stick. Still, I rolled over, and pretended the dream was real. But he jabbed me again, and I forced myself up.


Author: Steven Baird

Writer, amateur photographer, ad compositor and chicken herder.

2 thoughts on “Sleeping outside”

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