Like laying in a palm held where clouds bend to breath

Around sunset, we went to the Fells. We stood on the top of granite shields and watched a mallard swim toward us across the late-skimmed reflections of the reservoir, quacking disappointedly away to his fellows when we had no treats for him. We could hear a chorus of peepers from a pond we couldn't see through the lichen-patched trees, still leafless as autumn. Holdstock's idea of a mythago wood always looked like these tangled trails to me, smelling of cold stone and last year's winter. spatch took pictures of us in the last, highest light.