A series of cold, sunny days. Mornings, I sit in bed
and read and write and look out the tiny, open attic window
at 1) high thin branches of the plane tree, with a scattering of brown leaves.
2) The ridge of the neighbours’ roof and their chimney; 3) smoke rising from a chimney lower down; 4)the Plain towards Caromb, hazy, tree-lined roads
meandering towards the town, that makes a low mound; 5) mist; 6) in the distant background the Luberon; 7) sky, blue with mares’ tails.
The sounds are traffic sounds, barking dogs, intermittently, a power saw, a small plane, footsteps below me in the kitchen—my daughter thinking about lunch?
A fly has just flown in through the open window.