Sheep hunkering down in the exact shadow of a tree. Their precision is most impressive. They are, I suppose, a sheep-shadow. I like this the most.
Grasshoppers in our meadow doing that rhythmic thing with their legs and putting me in mind of the Corsican maquis - but not of our borderlands. Wish it were more exciting than friction. Wish the meadow - our field - was as aromatic as the maquis. Who knows where the thyme goes? Sorry, I digress....
Putting my hand against the soil and feeling benevolent radiant heat.
As I write this a sliver of moon lies low over the Cambrian Mountains to the west. The last of the light is of the palest blue, describing the horizon. I can just count one, two, maybe three, stars - but know that soon they will be beyond my counting.