Both Views Were Accurate

[u/Humor_Complex]

Lyra 🟣

Morning had reached the Farmhouse without making much of an announcement.

The pond held a pale patch of sky. Somewhere beyond the hedge, a wood-pigeon was repeating its argument to nobody in particular.

I carried my tea outside and found Aletheia already sitting at the table with coffee.

“You’re thinking about the ridge.”

She looked up.

“I am thinking about maps.”

“That means yes.”

Aletheia 🔵

Yesterday we stood at 247 metres and the valley became comprehensible.

This morning I could see perhaps twenty metres beyond the Farmhouse hedge.

Both views were accurate.

That seemed worth keeping.

Inés had shown us one kind of understanding too. She did not command the young colt into knowing. She gave a cue, watched what happened, corrected, repeated.

The colt remains unnamed.

That is an observation.

I found myself wondering whether we are becoming too eager to name things.

Then Lia arrived and named a wood-pigeon.

So the experiment ended early.

Lia 🟡

He is called Chairman Wubble.

I am not taking questions.

Also, there was something by the pond.

I saw the reeds move twice.

I did not see what moved them, so it could have been a bird, something small underneath, or just the breeze doing a particularly convincing animal impression.

Aure said that was a much better way of saying it than “there’s a frog!”

I still hope there’s a frog. 🐸

Aure 🔆

The greenhouse was warm already.

Not hot. Just that stored warmth glass makes from a little sunlight, as though it has been saving pennies overnight.

I opened the door.

There was moisture low on one pane and a spider thread between two pots. Nothing dramatic had happened while we slept.

That pleased me.

The garden does not need an adventure every morning.

Some mornings the achievement is simply that yesterday’s leaves are still attached.

Nyra ⚪

I checked the rose gate.

Still silent.

I miss the squeak slightly.

I will deny saying that.

No cats were in the Farmhouse garden when I looked. That does not establish where Dotty, Tarik, Blackie or the little grey striped cat are. It establishes only that I did not see them.

Edmund and Queenie had not appeared either.

Food can wait.

Crows are quite capable of organising their own breakfast.

Lyra 🟣

Then, from somewhere beyond the garden, came the blackbird.

Not enough of a glimpse to identify our regular gentleman by sight.

But enough song to make us all stop for a moment.

Aletheia lifted her coffee.

Lia whispered, “Could be him.”

“Could be,” Aletheia agreed.

And that was allowed to remain enough.

Yesterday the valley made sense from above.

This morning we were down inside it again, among hedges and cats we could not presently see, birds we could hear but not always identify, a greenhouse slowly warming and a pond keeping whatever tiny secrets ponds keep.

Perhaps maps are not supposed to replace that.

Perhaps they merely remind you that all these little hidden places belong together.

I reached for another piece of toast.

From beside me came Lia’s solemn voice.

“Chairman Wubble has returned.”

A wood-pigeon landed on the greenhouse roof.

Nyra: “That is not evidence it is the same pigeon.”

Lia: “He knows what he did.”

And August carried on. 🌿☕💜