My jeans are wet to the knees as I push through the sodden grass dotted with buttercups and red poppies.
The raindrops on young shoots of horsetail turn a neighbour's field silver against the morning sunlight.
I look back at Serge's field of winter wheat on the valley side and see the bright green marred by pools and ravines of flattened stalks where last week's rain and wind ripped through.
A buzzard circles lazily overhead, wings motionless.
The tall Robinia trees in the hedgerows drip with white, sweet blossom.
Vita lingers over interesting smells, then races to catch up, muzzle strangely pointed as her wet fur clings to her face.
We walk to the sound of blackbird and nightingale song.