Throughout the afternoon the hawks flew from side to side across the garden. More than actual visions, they were a hunch most of the time. Now the male is standing on the roof of the house which is the center of the lot. Leaning forward and on the prowl. Suddenly a pigeon crosses the space above the house. The hawk darts at her. The pigeon narrowly escapes by flying west. The hunter draws a curl in the air when trying to catch it and, failing, continues his flight to the east and occupies a branch of the drunken stick. It is hidden in the tree. It is the first time in so many months that I can see him hunting so clearly.

As always after the rain, the thrushes reappeared. They are many and they are constantly moving. From pine to vine, from peach tree to viewpoint, from drunken tree to false coffee tree. Part one and others follow. Only birds visible this morning. Their brief calls and the flapping of their wings embody all the sounds of today's garden. In the plant world, the achira flowers also reappeared one by one: a memory of fire emerging from green.