10am. Elsewhere. Different villages, different houses. A few people rushing for the late mass but these places feel quiet in an uncomfortable way. The pulse of the cities seems to lure off anyone not well-anchored here, and the reasons to stay are diminishing. Droplets of nights rain on yellow blossoms. Traces of a mole, small piles of heavy brown ground in an otherwise exactly cut garden lawn. An other kind of life reclaiming space.