This country doesn't have wind like I knew wind in California; the wind dashes in gales, in great grey horses which rattle the house at night like distant explosions. The subsequent morning is astonishing for its silver tranquility. Blue tits, batheing in the gutter. A horse in a sweater browsing the grass. Scarlet berries and insects, devoured by great tits, distinguished from blue tits by their black berets and black bibs extending down their yellow shirtfront; I spotted one while listening to Eartha Kitt growling "C'est si bon" on the radio and I imagined cigarette smoke curling about his head. Our neighbor, a blond bull, has a lady friend now and we are happy for him.




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