A tree near a dumptruck.
[daily log: walking, 3km]
Arthur is still capable of humor.
Jared: How are you feeling?
Arthur: I feel like I fell on my head. [Waits for three beats…] Last year.
The morning was clear at five AM, but now, a low-lying fog came. The rough trees' branches reach down, tasting air, nonchalant. Two fat ravens perch, on the dock's rail. The mist clears, shifting things.