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.