Wild things

Every chance I get I take the girls out. We find ourselves alone in wild places; they are all around here. We remark on the bumpy lumps of the field of wheat that has just been churned up by a farmer. We watch fall stain the leaves of the vineyards red and orange and amber. We stand outside in the mistral wind and let it swell in and out of our ears; we yell to hear each other. The wind charges into our bodies. We squint to see.

I watch them run together in an alley of sycamore trees - the symbol of the south of France.

And all under a Provence sky.