A wide white willow swept the grass beneath my feet. Spring cleaning, she said, with a whistle and a curtsey.

I pulled the little tugboat onto the bank and tied it to a jutting rock. The air was still with occasional scurries of breeze, as if it were too shy to blow. Or perhaps tired, hungover like the rest of us. Daisies, still wet with the dew of night, kept their heads bowed in slumber. Heavy one for them, too.

I made my way up to the brow of the hill, who groaned and turned as I gently stepped across her skin. I took four ibuprofens from my pocket, downed two of them, and lodged the two in the earth beneath me. The hill smiled in appreciation.