Sitting at the barn the other day, reading, and something flies through my peripheral vision. Turn to look. Nothing. Reading again and again it happens - something flung through the air. But where? Book down now, waiting now, and a tiny spray of soil erupts from the weeds. Grab the camera, of course, creep closer and freeze. And there he is, the gopher, shiny stripey brown, extending his underground empire.
Go fer a good pun. Fail.
Next entry: Wind-blown
More by Veronique de Turenne:
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