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Evelyn leant on her veranda and looked into the purple haze. Her coffee mug was balanced on the ledge, her chin propped up by her elbows.
Her gaze lifted over the first ridge of indigo hills, then the second, her imagination realizing they stretched on ad infinitum, could her eyes but discern them. Lucky life is not a straight line, she mused. The destination would be achieved all too soon. Evelyn thanked her lucky stars for not flying like a crow. Instead she cogitated on up hill and down dale, and the peregrinations of both bush-walking and life. How some people spent all their life following the stream, never venturing to clamber up the more difficult inclines.
Then she saw the ridge of blue stretched across the expanse of the sky, and wondered where the trudging ended and the flying commenced.
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