Water where a path was.

The meadow is the Lynne’s spare room, rented suddenly. Your hours thin. Hop, if present, is lifted. Aelric’s list does not say I told you because Aelric is not cruel; the parchment is a little curled.

You can still cut south to the ferry, wet to the thigh, dignity in a puddle.

You can keep wading the green as if stubbornness were a landmark.

Puddles with currents are the tell. Standing water should not tug. The meadow has become a room of the river. Your hours soak. Pride soaks. The ferry-rope, if you still choose it, is a straight line in a place that has too few.

A lark goes up, insulted. Meadow-flowers are under a sheet of moving glass. Your choice is still a door: rope, or more glass.