And I sit at dawn with the birdsong that drapes the valley, layered and arrhythmic. A cock crows from down in the golden light. The oleanders hang from their bushes before me, as if in honour of the sakura. Little surprise as the artists who loved Provencal light were similarly taken with Japan. It dawns on me that I haven’t yet heard the donkey this visit, who tends to bray in the night. Missing too from the night’s call is the spinning wind chime, though the winds seem to prefer the evenings this time of year.
On the turntable:
