We took a picnic across the meadow, stepping carefully to avoid the cracked earth and the vole tunnels, to our picnic table beneath the big plum tree. We ate pan bagnat, plums sun-hot from the trees, and the first blackberries. We listened to a red kite screaming at a buzzard, the robins’ war cries, the soft plop when a ripe plum hit the grass. A hot breeze riffled through the leaves, and for a few moments, there was nothing else.

Holiday

a moment of peace

wherever it falls.