On pale straw stalks brown bulrushes sway, slowly being feathered by the wind.
I think one day this week I really ought to take some time away from my bumpkin existance, and head into town with the aim of writing about something other than plants, and birds, and muddy fields! But seeing the bulrushes this morning brought back memories of a kitten I had some years ago. She was a feisty little moggy, and I still miss her.
Back in those days, I used to have a vase of bulrushes in my kitchen. I had no idea they ripened into fluffy seedheads until the morning I came downstairs to discover the kitten had attacked them in the night. The floor was covered in what looked like masses and masses of thistle-down. Bulrush carnage. The wind which blows around the fishing pond near our house, is far more gentle.