We've been getting up early (when our weary bodies allow) and working on the roof of the new entrance. Awake before 6, a coffee and out into the dawn, the roof is slowly taking shape. Dave has the lions share of the work, the carpentry up on high, using power tools I don't like to touch.
I paint the ceiling planks with borax, an attempt to stop the wood boring insects of the future.
It gives me time to enjoy the sunrise.
And pick the capers that are bursting to be harvested. More than we can eat, thank you bees for your pollinating last month.
I reflect on the contrasts.
A kind of winter descends on this semi-desert at the height of summer. Some plants and trees go dormant, growth halts, leaves fall off, mulch, protecting their roots from the seering sun.
Others bring forth their bounty.
I look up, the moon is full, the burnt sienna of the albaida last month has turned bright red. Gold sparkles as the sun runs down the hills, lighting areas that were, a moment ago, in shadow.
I long to sketch, but work calls. That constant pull between practical and magical.
As soon as I finish I hurry in to record before I forget.
