I thought to myself that the outer bark of silver birch, from a distance often looks like an old manuscript. As I come in close, there is this ant hurrying down the trunk. Others are climbing up the trunk.
The ground under the trees in the Grove is scattered with new acorns. They snuggle into their, furry cups and shine with an emerald green colour that makes you think of spring.
A small boy steps out of a front door and extends his hand. He feeling for rain. You don't hear his mother's voice from inside the house, but you know what she is saying: "It's not!" he says.