Fyllen wants to be free
My laundry basket escaped today. Or maybe yesterday, I don’t know.
It was a day of high winds and fire danger. One where I feared my washing would escape from the line and sail, weightless, into the scrub; my sensible undies and camisoles impaled upon the thorn bushes like the larder of a cuckoo-shrike. But all my laundry remained on the line, mostly dry and firmly pegged.
Only the Ikea fold-up basket flew the coop.
A city-bred basket, I fear for its future. But I imagine it roaming the bush in the company of kangaroos and currawongs, fending for itself, scavenging plastic and fabric scraps to fill its unfolded emptiness.
Good hunting, Fyllen.