The straws were impelled by the wind across the path. They had been uprooted from the farmyards through the narrow chinks of the doors, becoming old and soaring ones from forgotten haystacks.

The wind got up early in the morning and tunneled through the cloud layers. It scraped the sea surface to scramble the white sugar from the spray, climbed over the cliff, and persuaded the whispering heathers to be ringing. It stopped for a brief instant, and immediately revolved around the house, carved a whistle when facing every smallest corner, wagled some loose tiles, dragged the leaves from the past autumn (these grizzly watermarks having scampered from the humus suction), and drew courtains of grey dust from the ground furrows, which excoriated the dry scab of the old puddles (like a grater).

A whirlwind was forming at the village boundaries. Little branches and mad herbs started spinning (like the apex of a fuzzy cone).

There was a black, espongy and plastic thing near a greyish wall. The cone tip -zigzagging- approached a black empty cat. A cat with no substance. An untouchable and dry cat. The shell of a cat that had been psychoanalyzed; therefore its soul had been removed.

The whirlwind, throwing the empty cat onto the path, caused it to roll, like a newspaper (roughly) does across the beach. Once the wind had laid sharp noisy threads through the high grass spikes, the cat stumbled and fell (grotesquely) onto the ground.

With a brisk shift, the wind crushed the boned rompers against a hedge, and after missing two notes or so, was taken again for the next waltz. Suddenly, the cat jumped over the slope (because the path curved); ran between the green nettles, electrifying itself at their touch; and fluttered everywhere like a drunk crow.

Eventually the wind forsook its dancing partner. And the cat remained empty; so empty as the perfect void from dry vegetables; as the old straw from the haystacks abandoned to sun.

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