Morning run up a slope of springy maritime turf, and the sun rises above the cliffs to greet me.
Don’t gag, but it feels like a reunion.
North and east, hail drapes and something like mammatus are dropping out of clouds.
Sun momentarily illuminates the tips of cypresses on an island ten miles distant.
Far to the west, pink/orange tinged cumulus march low across the horizon.
They could be the snow-capped Pyrenees. Or a fleet of galleons, carrying silk bales.
For some reason, I was trying to remember the name of the wild service tree.
What came to mind was “parsimony and silence.”