By midday the dew is still refusing to evaporate and continuing to twinkle in the unmistakenly autumnal light. The cloudless sky is an acid blue like a Mediterranean sea in a holiday brochure. We are entirely surrounded by old trees, nestled in a copse of silver birch and in sight of gnarly oaks planted when Galileo was observing the stars. There is more than a hint of the Jurrasic in the evergreens. Bone dry, brown, curly leaves drop into my coffee. The loudest sounds are made by a hundred-strong murder of crows navigating the forest using the highest canopies as junctions. The only other noises are other birds. The lake is so smooth I want to jump in with a parachute and fall for years.
The sun is warm only in direct sight and the air is crisp. The shadows are icy cold. There is a lucidity in the distant panorama only possible in moistureless chilled air.
It is ancient, relentless and simultaneously irrespective of people but unambiguously symbiotic with them.
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