#Rural life

[peninsulaisms]

mornington cemetery

[sanseterrer]

Then they started telling me random stories that didn't make much sense, without going into a lot of details; the stories were aimed at a narrow audience, as if I were them, I knew who they were talking about, and much more. Jokes about boards and a hut made of them, about puppies, a cat that follows my new interlocutor for days on end – all this cut off the thought, idea, about recognizing certain details for a clearer understanding of the conversation. The emotional atmosphere, friendly and inviting, prevailed.

[ … ]

A tractor was coming from the field. The puppies, in a crowd, ran under his wheels. The driver started honking his horn, slowed down, and then pulled up close to us and stood still. The door was opened by an older man; next to him sat a guy who looked to be about twenty years old. We couldn't hear much clearly over the rumble of the tractor. — What's he saying? – the woman asked me, lighting a cigarette. In response, I just shrugged my shoulders out of ignorance.

Then she came closer to them – now the dialogue was going on more or less unhindered. The girl and I, being in our starting positions, continued not to hear or understand anything. The only thing I heard in passing was how grandma pointed at the girl with the words: «This is my granddaughter» (at first, those two seemed to think that her granddaughter was me). And how she pointed at one of the puppies, saying, «You can pick it up tomorrow». It turned out to be about giving away a puppy. The guy who was also sitting in the tractor's cabin didn't say anything, but listened with great curiosity to the conversation between the two of them, and occasionally glanced at me, the girl, and the dogs.

The cabin door slammed shut, and the tractor drove towards the neighboring village of Podberezye. — Do they want to take the puppy? I ask. — Yes. He says I'll take at least tomorrow the one that threw itself under the wheels of the tractor the most. — Are they locals? Do you know them? — I don't know. No, they're not locals. — One from Podberezye. – said the girl. — No, not from Podberezye. — Or from Volkovich… — And not from Volkovich. Not local. I don't know where they come from. If they want a puppy, let them come and pick it up.

[ … ]

The sky rushed into twilight, turned pink, the light slowly disappeared. It suddenly became cold. The grandmother finished with her granddaughter, telling her finally that it was already cold now, and it would start to get dark soon – it was better to go home. They also said goodbye to me. The puppies were noticeably tired by this point.

Finally, after seeing them off, their mistress, and the village itself, the only way in front of me was to go home.

October 12, 2024; part three.

[mother-lee]

[nowheresville-dakota]

[toffeenutcrunchlatte]

[guardcanine]

Photographed by Briscoe

[contemplatingsaudade]

Mama cow with her baby :3

[bebs-art-gallery]

Young Man in Churchyard (1938)

— by Peter Weiss

[godslaughters]

[ed13d1]

let it happen

illustration by sarah morgan

[floridagrowngirl]

Tornado touchdown, Northern Colorado, 2015

[peninsulaisms]

its just not my year (but im all good out here)

[sanseterrer]

The golden and crimson grace of October // part 1

[floodleaf]

[becomingvecna]

[toffeenutcrunchlatte]