Evening Commuters
It’s brisk, barely spring time.
Dusk gently settles in the tops of bare tees, plum sky providing just enough light to reveal the first commuter – a pair of long rounded ears and a plump figure, nose in the snowdrops.
She freezes, eyes wide, a flush of pink in the ears, as though she’s embarrassed to be caught picking stems from a neighbour’s garden. Just a few for the little vase in her burrow, a drop of white and green against clay brown. A spot of brightness when the rainy days drizzle in.
The next moment there’s only the light tip of her tail and the flowers falling as she darts behind a hedge. A rustle and then stillness.
The family is out on their usual route again. Three? Four? No, seven in total, all in a line, with the smaller ones in the middle. Seven sets of long thin legs, hooves clicking on the pavement. They pause and stare.
The first nods his head – a silent greeting. Then they continue across the street, single file, not running but quickening their pace just a bit out of courtesy. It’s their right of way but not everyone yields to them. All have crossed and one looks back again, his expression firm, but not unkind.
The early evening moon slips out from behind a thin wisp of cloud, the arch of a trellis forming a shadowed shelter. Suddenly, like he has just gotten off an unseen bus, the final commuter splashes into a puddle on the pathway, warm yellow light wobbling at his webbed toes.
For a moment it seems as though he wants to stay and chat. But he’s had a long day, and still has the whole walk home. Wouldn’t like a lift even if one was offered. Perhaps another time. And with that he turns and goes, feet slapping on the path into the night.
