My coffee tastes like espresso this morning – the first cup of a whole potful that I grabbed to get back upstairs with it so as not to have to talk to anyone quite yet.
The valley is socked in with smoke still, the rising sun a blood-red ball over the hazy hillside. But there is no smell of smoke that I can detect; maybe my nose has become inured to it. The doves are cooing, there is chirping and whistling and shrieking, and the odd chattering noises of what I think is the quails interrupting it all.
It’s a good morning – pleasant, cool, slightly breezy. The orange glow of the smoke-shrouded morning sun is laying diagonal planks of light across the balcony floor like molten copper; the indolent curve of the blue-and-green-striped hammock swaying almost imperceptibly in the breeze.
My tongue is still tasting the acrid flavour of the much-too-strong coffee – I can’t even finish it; a whole mug of espresso is far too much.