It’s still there, and it grows more gruesome by the day. I thought another animal might take it, but perhaps dead squirrel do not make good fare. There is little flesh left, just fur and its head, strained into a kind of silent screaming. It is a pitiful sight and I find myself walking into the road to avoid it. The pavement around it is littered with fallen blackberries that have oozed, blue and purple, into the tarmac.
An overcast, damp and mizzly morning. I did go and draw yesterday despite the weather predictions. Rain spotted my pages. I need to write more. To balance the two. Look she’s drawing something, I heard a child say behind me. She might be writing, said his mother. No, he said, determined, she’s drawing.
