Waiting

I'm sat here with the ginger cat, waiting for my PCR results to ping through and for Nico to realise the dog has run home alone for supper.

Pierre Sab is down there in the field with him.  I can see big fat Nana and little dog that looks like a bread roll, Nico and Le Grand Homme' fading into the darkness, but their voices are still clear.

Sometimes places which are geographically close seem far away until you begin to 'occupy them' (in the best possible form of occupation).  

Pierre's now hammering in posts which, I suppose, means he's delimiting what will be our allotment.  I quietly admire my husband's chutzpah in asking for an irrigated corner of the Sabatier Empire.

Nico has called for the dog and I've shouted out that he's home and the world feels suddenly a little smaller and friendlier.  

I've lit the light as a sort of post industrial smoke signal.