Reading Proust has reminded me to walk slowly through the place where I live and look carefully. I like the sunset to twilight hours and if it is also the close to a warm spring day, then all the better

The neighbor's yard sprawls into forgotten corners where vines take over and mysterious manmade beehive huts disintegrate at an elegant pace. These people also have aristocratic chickens whose chicken castle glows red on cold nights. Their yard makes me wish I was their child, the vast tangle of a yard my own private playground.