Yesterday when Baby ran in our garden she held out her palms to the beat of the sun. Today she waves as starlings flock, as we cross the cut field following the whirling tail of Dog. The sky is damp more than it is any particular colour. Baby studies the birds; they gather on a wire, fall like confetti into staccato winds. A slug dark with purpose seems lost amongst dry stalks. The ground curves down to thick green hedges. On skin, air leans close, whispers indecipherable sounds. Baby turns her head, from one edge of field to the other, seeking the source of the murmur. She looks to the earth, she looks to the heavens. She looks into her grandmother’s eyes and smiles with the semblance of someone who has recalled a thing of extraordinary import. I scoop her up like sifted gold; we run with Dog, laughing and laughing.