There’s an ocean swell of greenery in the leafy crowns of trees, a sea-surge in the sycamores, a breeze blowing from the Pacific that rattles windows and slams doors in old wooden, weathered houses, that only a few valleys away, close up to the restless ocean is a settled ghost of fog that hugs the wind-sculpted pines, fills up the solitary dips in ravines and moistens the dry lips of vegetation, then as night descends, becalmed.
Murmuring song of doves at sunset in the leaf-swaying sycamores singing the unheard melodies that long dead composers never wrote down.
And after a while, there is a lull, a silence punctuated by rise and fall of leaf music or simply a breeze in the tops of trees.
At a distance, the world at large goes about its business as usual, noisy, frantic and busy energized and fueled by the pulsing sun.
Here in the solitude of a garden happily record a day well spent.