In the Grove, there are squirrels everywhere, perhaps too many. They run about or balance on branches making noises - half quack, half squawk.
Periwinkles are in flower; blue on the "village green", the rarer, white in our garden.
The door to a cubbyhole, where tools are kept, is back on its hinges after leaning, in a collapsed state, against the surrounding wall.
once, after midnight, in the unbearable heat of summer, beneath a statement of stars, i squeezed my van through the winding unlit streets of a remote spanish village where each poor householder had lifted his little front door from it's flimsy hinges and propped it against the front of the house hoping to recieve the slightest breeze that might come
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