There are minutes of the ticking kind and minute, minutieuse, of the little. I have a tendency to be fond of both, most especially when they meet.
High up on a mountain, a butte points over the Grands Causses, a valley known for its vultures swooping on currents of hot air.
A see of big and little so close, so close that they exchange confidences in the winds cupped around my ear.
But rather than only look out...
...searching for the sea that can be traced at the horizon...
...I wonder at the waves at my feet. Rock, field and flower.
We feel content and languor beneath the shadows of rolling clouds.