The Hacienda Must be Grown
Dragging the canvas to the flyover when it was just plain and grey and flimsy was not the kind of drag that meant channels of mud. It never once touched the ground, it was always at least waist height and it blew around a bit and acted as a sail. The sense of being dragged was inside the body, of the walk harder usual because of this giant, empty thing. People in cars looked, stared like people in cars do when they see things they did not anticipate. Each second or two of starey eyeballs made the belly churn a little and cling to the promise of the corner that took me off the road and into the mudpath between the houses. Then, at least, while no less awkward, the baggage of intent was unseen by anyone else. I could struggle alone as it snagged in brambles and the soft hooks of high ferns. Once free of unintended audience the possibilities of what this thing might become in the next hours started to emerge. Kind of.