Dust Sheets

A Silver-Grey Dorking rooster with silvery-white hackles, a solid black breast, a glossy black tail and a large red single comb, in a tan waxed-canvas chore coat with a brown corduroy collar, cut to fit a bird, standing on scaled pale pink rooster legs with talons on the seat of an old wooden spindle-back chair in a knotty-pine lakeside cottage, a sofa and armchair draped in white dust sheets around him, a lattice-topped red berry pie in a glass dish with one slice gone, a folded tea towel and a wooden canoe paddle on a pine table beside him, a half-closed louvred shutter and a window behind showing a grey lake and a far shore of red, orange and green autumn trees under an overcast sky

The Pie Will Not Fit in the Car

The dock came in on Saturday, and the canoe went under the porch on Sunday, after the dinner. Today is for the sheets, the shutters and the question of the pie. He has been considering it since breakfast from the one chair still uncovered, while the maples across the water get on with their own closing up.

12 October 2026