Sometimes the tree-leaves above him move and sound in such a way as to suggest that they are dry and someone else is walking on them. Some low-come angel. Some higher being, slumming it amongst the canopy.
There are scratches at the garden fence. Birds and their wings, perhaps, or just the creaking in with age of the long-unpainted wood. A light green mould climbs it in certain places, like ivy on an old house. That is the word for it. Those are the words: Old and Homely.
The cattle that keep the field and farmer busy in the wilderness beyond, they are quiet. They are either meat by this time of the year, or hiding in some far corner, some unvoiced knowing settling in the grass amongst them that their days as meat are coming. He does not think they concern themselves with tree-sounds, the cows, with musings about angels. But he does not know. Maybe their sleeping, their running, their shitting on the footpaths, maybe that is their worship.
Something scratches at the fence again and he sits, leaned deep back into his chair. His beer smells sweet, almost honey, almost wild. He sips.