The air is still but the birds are boastful and fidgety. Zach builds a fire in the yard. Our girl gathers wet leaves into piles to drop herself into before regathering them to drop into the fire. She lets her scarf fall off and I pick it up. We gather and drop, gather and drop. The leaves' ashes fly straight up, tiny bats darting to the sky until the rain comes and subdues all of us.
We clean the cottage, eat our lunch and leave. Driving away we watch parts of the village disappear, enveloped in the mist. Here and gone, here and gone. We listen to the CBC.