Fields of Clover
He wailed and she said, “Shhh,” out there, in the country, running with her jogger. Her baby usually liked those grand excursions: her running off and through the town with old brick homes and pubs, traveling what the locals called the footpaths. Her baby’d laugh and she would push him: over the bridge, along the river, past that place with pansies. It was spring and her baby wouldn’t stop wailing. She held him; moving halfway.