Everything is better out of doors—drama, food, music, love.
You can hear the wind in the trees, moan of buzzflies, the smallness of voices in the distance, the similarity of gulls and schoolchildren's cries, desultory clink of hammer on tin far away, pecking of a neighbour's shovel on stone, angry jets.
The sheen of green-bellied flies does not go unnoticed, the visits and revisits of a rufus butterfly, and a wood pigeon's one bar blues.
On a hot day when any wind rushes through and cools your ankles, on a dry day when the trickle of water nearby is a joy to hear. Sirens do not distract the terrier from chewing a stick, working on it implacably, less concerned with noises off than with a hover fly that dares to interrupt.
Leaves lit through by the evening sun on top of a laurel mostly in shade, bring a memory from a lost summer, of a grand avenue with four rows of trees, and side roads with small terraced houses below.
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I particularly like this 12th century Irish planespotter's journal entry. It reminds me so much of my own thoughts when resting in the garden after hoeing around the beds. Ganache