Sunday, 13 April 2014

The first nightingale of the year.

First there is the hill, then the open fields and after that the vineyard.

There is a small hamlet and then the track.

The track is full of holes and the house is at the end of the holes.

On one side the land falls away like an ancient cliff and distant lights of other hamlets tell you that you are not completely alone.

Not completely.

Inside, a man is playing the trumpet – you do not know him but he seems to know you.

He plays well.


Soft and sensuous jazz.

The best kind really.

Lighting is low, candles flicker; people are swaying to the vibe.

Outside, the moon watches.

It will be full tomorrow; tonight it covers the fields and trees, valleys and folds in an almost clear ghostliness.

There is a track at the side of the house; it leads down to a field where animals live.

The light is too ghostly to make out anything other than their smell.

Donkeys maybe, horses probably, but it might be goats – you can not say for certain.

Here the sounds from the house do not carry.

A bird sings.

The nightingale.

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