My trainer-clad feet marched out in front of me, one after
the other. My eyes stayed on the uneven path, my focus for the moment taken
away from the bright blue sky. I negotiated a tussock of tarmac, rising out of
the track like a tiny, extinct volcano. A few steps ahead of me movement caught
my eye. A small brown mouse stopped dead, one tiny paw lifted in the air, as if
requesting permission to pee. Then it bolted, disappearing into the undergrowth
in a blur.
I wonder if coastal mouse is the envy of his town-dwelling
cousins. Does he* nibble on samphire, with a side of leftover chips scavenged
from tossed-away wrappings? Maybe he gnaws on a stick of rock at the end of the
meal, wondering what the letters in the middle spell out.
What does coastal mouse do for fun? Surfing maybe? There’s
something I’d like to see. Perhaps those tiny claws imprint the virgin sand
each morning as he jogs across the beach. His whiskers twitch as he inhales the
fresh morning air, before he breaks the surf and doggy paddles across the bay
and back.
If I see him, I’ll be sure to take a photo.
*Coastal mouse could equally be a she. He/she didn’t flash
me so I don’t know. Not that I’m encouraging anyone to flash me.
