Walking in the meadow, a huge syrup-gold shape bursts out of the bushes. Roe deer. So close, my eyes can feel the solidness of the slabs of muscle under her fur. My heart is racing with the echos of her rustling. On this threadbare island, her size means more to my amygdala than I can put into words.
On the bridge, we pause to watch the waving of the green weeds in the river. The first thing: a trout, dark yet spotted, dancing for the scraps the current brings. The second thing: a man comes towards us, lit cigarette in hand. He only wants to tell us that the trout has been there for the last four days. Half-formed distrust melts away. I am ashamed. I am delighted.
The pond beyond the river is full of black. Its surface shivers and plucks, but there’s no rain in the sky. My brain re-calibrates. Tadpoles. A wriggling bounty of them. Ripening into froggyiness – heads sharpening, tails shrinking, legs growing, skin like soot washing away to reveal a hidden bronze. We drop to the boardwalk, bend over, bring our faces as close as we can, just children watching children.
The moments the world flips are the ones we never forget.