At lunch I set out on my bicycle along the coast road. Pushed on by the uncompromising wind past the salt marshes to the mill by the reed beds.
The thatch has been recently harvested, but there is still enough cover for a red kite to spark surprise when lifting off from the hollow stalks. The distinguished underwing markings are easily seen in the March sunlight. The agility of the big raptor is predicated on the pivot of its tail. The bird flexes its tail in the stiff breeze, turns left, then right, then on toward the marshes.
Rising above the windmill’s latticed sails it drifts away. Two other kites join its flight from beyond the bank. The trio wind up higher and higher, further and further distant. Soon they are just specks on the fine lace clouds stretched over the blue sky.
On the road home inland, climbing the long hill, the tarmac is specked with tiny petals. White as ice. Blown into small piles like a light dusting of snow.
A photograph from the hospital. “Hello” its caption. My eldest about to start his first shift back. He’s in protective kit before entering the ICU. No testing of staff – just the mask, visor, gloves, overalls and boots.
You have switched off by the time I am free to speak. Time zones do not respect body-clocks.