Over the wall I was leaning upon, beside the road I was cycling on, there was a field and some woods over there. I stood and listened to the wind scurrying through branches as cars and seconds past. I wondered why other folk weren’t stopping to listen too, as the wind’s voice among trees is old and sublime, and soothing.
The air was warm but the stone of the wall was cold on my elbows and chest. A air of crows landed nearby, chattering, and I took around fourteen breathes per minute of the hurried air arriving from the west over the sea from Ireland.
It was dry and it was the fourth day of February. I continued to the beach afterwards, my feet pushing stones together under them with that delightful crunch. The tide was out and I heard curlews on the flats.
