Monsieur F's water canon pulses across the maize in the field up behind the house: swish, swish - swish, swish - swish, swish. Like a heart beat.
Fat rain drops spat on the just-open window and the curtain stirs in the current of cooler air.
Thunder murmurs in the distance. A soft growl rather than a real threat.
A lone car whooshes along the top ridge in the dark
Remote shouts and gun shots echo from the lounge as Guccio and his master watch bad late night television turned down low so as not to disturb..
Vita shares their space and scrabbles at the carpet, trying to hollow a nest before settling down again with a thump and a sigh.
Bertie sleeps on the bed behind me in the gloom beyond the light on my desk. He breathes so quietly I forget he is there.