November

The piercing cold rain, has set in for the winter here in the south west of England, low swiftly moving storms pound the already saturated green hills of Dorset. It’s hard to believe that it’s  been a year since we left the Sonoran desert. The town hall clock chimes out and sown the narrow market town allies  which use to form long rope walks.  Even though we has a really sunny warm summer, Englands long dark wet evening can make anyone submit to death by doueve a term I have not heard of but find quite amusing. Bouncing up to his new bed a fleece covers, metal hammock that hangs off the large metal radiator our old ferrel cat paws a small rolled towel, put there to comfort him after the loss of his older brother after his death. His hopeful efforts, to no avail, shifting and stopping, finally throwing his old hips side ways landing on his full belly , his head swiftly tucked under his front paw.