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Thirteen years in Provence without a television -- what bliss. In the evening I listen to Ravi Shankar, read, make a fire, hold my tiger cat, write letters and watch the sun set over the mountains.
I hear owls then, watch swallows draw circles in front of my window, chat with a neighbor about mushroom hunting or the almond harvest, write a poem, make a bowl of tea -- and still there is time.
in the round pond
At dusk one can hear and see nearly everyone glued to their screenå except for those who sit at the café or walk their dogs.
I think of Thoreau then and his long rambles around Walden Pond. I used to live and walk there.
a chickadee flits through