It’s the rumble of tractors thundering through the lanes at dusk, their single headlights boring through the twilight as a matter of some urgency to round off the tasks of the day.

It’s the bubble of laughter floating on the breeze from that group sitting down by the canal who know it’s coming up to last orders but just can’t bear to send themselves home just yet and finish the evening.

It’s the incessant chatter of unseen birds in branches high overhead as they bid each other goodnight and settle down for a gentle slumber amongst their carefully curated nests.

It’s a lone sheep, somewhere in the distance, bleating a solitary warning of impending crimes being plotted by sly foxes in the midst.

It’s the gentle slapping of water against the black bottoms of boats as they idle on the canal, undulating in time to the movements of their inhabitants.

It’s the neighbour’s dog, doing a last round of checks at the end of the day and barking his sign-off to the rest of the neighbourhood before finding a cool floor upon which to rest his head for the oncoming night.

It’s the clinking of glasses being collected in, chiming together on wobbly trays as they’re carried precariously across the garden for one final journey of the day.

It’s the crunching of gravel shifting like oversized, obnoxiously loud grains of sand, as tipsy feet make their way through the garden, into their carriages and off into the night.

It’s a dream, an absolute midsummer night’s dream.

 

 

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