Little Granddaughter says: 'What's that noise?'
Last week she said only: 'Noise!'
Language grows like shining mystical bindweed, crawls around everything, confines, illuminates, defines, shadows.
(She still makes those silent movie star faces though.)
'It's the A30,' Grandad says. 'Cars, brmmm brmmmm.'
Cars are soon forgotten. She finds a feather, and Dog has hair.
'Doggle got hair,' she informs. 'Hair.' She pulls her own strands, to demonstrate a connection.
'Dog has hair all over. It's called fur.' Granma can be pedantic too.
'Doggle fur. Teddy!'
Weeds are flowers that grow in places where they are not wanted. These words are not weeds: I think, language is a bindflower.
At the end of the green path, she launches the feather into a tree.
'Wheeee feather! Bye!' And having released it back into the wild, walks away up the stony path with the poise of a person who is greatly skilled.