I hung out of the bedroom window last night before closing the curtains. The garden has grown shadows and secrets under its new canopy of green. Sounds are more difficult to distinguish now but I could hear owls calling and the coarse, throaty cry of pheasants.
Inside the house, water was running for an evening bath, dull base sounded from upstairs, there were footsteps on the wooden floor boards, a dog whining in the kitchen below. I heard soft laughter from another bedroom, the hiss of a car on the wet lane and, close to me, my husband quietly turning the pages of his book.
Everything outside was growing, reaching up, beyond, through and around, looking for a place in the light. So many layers of living things. Inside too. Each one of us busy with our own precious life. We weren’t together but we were connected, enjoying the same darkening evening, the same privilege of safety and the proximity of others.