The noise I heard yesterday while working in my sketchbook was a tree-feeler. We saw him blowing sawdust off the cars on St David’s Road when we came down the hill from our walk (such a lovely walk, he reminisced as we sat in the sun by the National Library). The trees have been cut down hard, pollarded like trees that van Gogh drew in Arles. They look like fists punching at the sky. I will draw them later.
How I shall miss this moon, the snow moon, when it leaves. I walk in white along the Perygyl as if in a dream.