The song goes: 'That's life, that's what the people say, riding high in April, shot down in May.' These lines are singing in my mind.
Behind me, the sun has heat.
There was mist, this morning, the sort that travels in upright tufts. Ghost mist. There was a between worlds feel to the morning.
Little birds pelt and blast and sway on fragile branches. They sing with their beaks full. It is tropically noisy.
Dew gems shine and evaporate.
Fat clouds drift.
Shadows of roof-nesting birds fly up and down the stone wall of the house.