He's digesting a sandwich - and some cherries he bought on the way. Also some blackberries he's just picked - they are already ripe and plentiful. And he drinks some water from a plastic bottle... He sighs with pleasure - and notes that he can never pass a ripe blackberry.

Still in the city, he can hear it, but he sees only clouds and trees and grass - and a fly, trespassing on the screen on which he is writing this and which he thinks of as his lifespace, not the fly's.

Sex or love or hate pass in the form of a middle aged man followed by a middle aged woman walking several paces behind the man. They do not speak or look about but they move dependently, as a unit.

There is no one else in the valley. He is happy to be alone beneath a returning jetplane and thin clouds and the overhanging leaves and branches of an oak tree. He reaches for a blackberry and he spits out a seed that got stuck between his teeth - and he notices a woodpecker on the grass before him.

These moments, he thinks, are like all moments, unrepeatable, and precious - or not - according to his state of mind - which at present is good.

And now he breathes in and makes a sound - a sound of pleasure.

He wrote this himself.