Now, this morning, east wind setting horses and sycamore leaves skittering. On the Atlantic seaboard maybe the waves will peel away clean in the offshore wind, egg-white peaks lifting. (I want to use the word isinglass here but think it doesn't fit. I like it though.)
Flights of redwings and fieldfare. A primrose. A last foxglove. Two wild strawberries.
I never expected to feel such jubilation at the simple sight of a dog lapping water unaided from the brook.
I'm thinking again about how love should be and is never straightforward – these needs, these fears, these desires; this wanting a fusing that is not at all about humanness. Wanting permanent transcendence