The sky graduating from the palest of icy blues to a warm cobalt. The only sounds as boots and dogs' paws scatter stones across the track is the chattering of the stream and the lark's song. Climbing up the rocky outcrop we pass the shiny armoured dung-beetle undertaking his Sisyphean task. His precious harvested ball slowly, slowly overcoming roots and stones. He stops as we pass.

Sitting on the outcrop - the blue lake nestles inbetween the hills; the water deposit, still, mirrors the sky. Big hairy bees penetrate the brushed velvet, pink softness of the Jerusalem Sage. We pass the daisies in the shadow of the algarroba tree that have yet to wake. The domed yellow heads not framed with white petals; the petals as yet hang like forlorn puppy ears. The distant call of a shepherd as with a jangling of bells he moves off with his flock and we reach our gate again.

What a wondrous morning.
Beyond the rose, above the ribbon of olives is my small rocky
outcrop from which I watch the world unfold.