Around 7.30 am on the trail, where the last of the suburban groves give way to the green tunnel, a slim gentleman walking his slimmer greyhound. You’ve passed them a few times and know to brake respectfully.
The dog always a good few paces behind the man, sometimes out of sight around the bend. Its coat the colour of sand, grey at the muzzle and around the eyes. Its haunches bony, the ribs showing through. It walks with measured grace, slow as a pallbearer. Dark eyes forward, head held steady. It pays you no mind as you rattle by. Not a flicker of acknowledgement.
All dignity, the old creature is concentrating on its next step, and the next, and the next.
Into the brambles
hops a rabbit