Barefoot among the barrel-rolling damselflies

Sandy Bedfordshire As the damsels flew upstream I began to wade with the fishes. It felt like a release, liberation even

Walking barefoot through a field of long grass, I poked into a molehill with my big toe. Its summit was like toasted breadcrumbs and the dislodged granules rolled down the slopes as loose scree.

My rotating foot waggled deeper, finding darker, damp, earth that held firm. The moisture suggested that this molehill was an eruption from the night before; the toes told what the eyes could only surmise.