the vapours

line of cars going nowhere. no sarcasm intended as hold up hand. other lane completely deserted. up alley. fu... luckily leave it at that, didn’t notice the woman just over the fence. something’s messing with my achilles but don’t fall for that anymore, running isn’t to blame. little hill is slippery and deserted. slip turning muddy corner. not happy. the big hills are steaming. steam is sinking into town. off little hill, onto hard stuff again. on to bury hill. man at gate is staring intently at rooftop or sky. steps aside without averting gaze. bird? clipboard suggests roof. slow for unnecessarily square dog... panting, good. head for steaming hillside. train honks by as approach line. breath is voluminous steam. can see less and less as rise. every step up the leaf-slick is a slip. grass is worse. can’t see the top. know the way. straight up. feel sick, know exactly why. three toasted sandwiches. worst thing to eat before a run. high track above vineyard. can see the big hill, woods, bury hill, the town, the whole valley and all the circling vapours. if the vapours are pretend smoke then the bright orange lights at the centre of town are the phoney fire. back through the park. looks like the lights could have been the car park by the church. can’t think we need them all. not even dark. push the pace between crossing roads. seem to be dripping. steamed.