FRANCE — Haute Provence

On the horizon, the pale yellow of the sinking sun throws a thin cloak of gold across the landscape. A solitary poppy catches the light and its silken petals glow with pride. It’s late evening and the cicadas and crickets shiver their relentless songs out into the thick air. Earlier, a thunderstorm rolled over the hills, casting no rain, but throwing contorted fingers of lightning at the tumbledown villages below.

Swifts gather and swarm through the air, picking off the insects, which gradually descend to the cooling ground below. Deep in the bushes, Nightingales buzz and squeak, safely hidden from view. As night descends, a chill wind sweeps through the fields and verges, causing dry grasses to shift nervously and rustle their disapproval.

From the village square, the sounds of night echo out across the wide-open fields; a game of boules, diners laughing outside buzzing restaurants, slamming doors and creaky shutters. Cars thrum past, whipping up the grasses into a frenzy, before speeding off, lights glowing ever-brighter into the gathering dusk.

Originally published at fortysix.weebly.com.