The wind is lively in the trees, it gives them a voice. They gesticulate, discussing the idea of a storm. A storm would take out the deadwood before branches get heavy with leaf. The hollowed oak doesn’t say much, though the wind channels up through the open centre of it. A layer of rainless cloud sits in still air, the wind does not reach beyond the tree-tops. The storm is only an idea. With my coat zipped up it is too warm. With my coat undone I aware of a lingering chill. Celandine leaves are populating the grass, the daffodil buds are fat and yellow in the sparse hedge. The sense of seasons turning is the sense of life progressing. 


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