21.

May 4th.

Silence.

The village has dropped into silence. Even the dogs lie in hot and soporific stupor, too relaxed to be aggravated. Lunch is being eaten, but I , of course, am outside, enjoying the 2 hours of absolute privacy.

Goldfinches are weaving a tiny nest of cobwebs and grass in a slender cypress and I'm watching them. One, - I like to think it’s the female, carries the nest fabric and dives into the tree; the male sits on the fence and twitters liquid trills to her. At some signal they fly off together in an undulating dance.

The crickets, grasshoppers and all their relations sing with the heat and in the background is the crowded sound of cowbells. On the first of May, Emile fetched the assortment of bells from his barn; I watched him clanging along the lane to his yard. There he selected the lead cows, dressed them each with a bell and now the top fields are ringing night and day.

May is definitely the musical month. Every year at this time the village impresario, a maestro or diva of a starling begins its long repertoire of perfect mimicry: from Buzzard to chicken cackle, car alarm to Golden Oriole, tail down, throat ruff fully inflated, the amazing performer takes centre stage for hours on end.


“Coucou!” Time’s up: Marie is out with sheets to hang and she has spotted me at the garden table. I`ve tried moving it to different corners but I'm nearly always found out.
“Storms coming soon so get these things dry quick”, she says staccato voce.

“Is that what the meteo says, then?”
“ No, they said non-stop sunshine but they often get it wrong. I know this sky.”

I look up and to the west. Sure enough, there is an ominous grey and pink tinged cloud edge to the horizon and the sun is a long time from setting.