The sound of thousands.

   A cast of millions, distant now and smoked by an ill kept fire. Here amongst the fine and proud, the eucalyptus general; tall and over our heads. Brushed by firmest air. Here, the disquiet of the city has no purchase,  no grip around our hearts. Here, on a ridge flanked by greatest plains, we find time for a little P and Q.

   And it is, I feel, somewhat of an oddity; something least expected given all that has passed. But it is a magnificent thing, and something that I cherish deeply.

   An now for news: I have found something beautiful, back amid the deafening, hidden in the violent rough. I have found something beautiful. And for the first time since..

   ..we sit by ill kept fire, drag wine across felty tongues, we lay softly in velour cushioned laps and bask in all that is veracious and tender.  We hold back the city, one hundred miles and a solid oak door our bulwark.  

   Perhaps it would kill us if it could.

   The distant reproach of a cast of thousands. The angry horde at the perimeter. Yet here amid the mountains, they are but a distraction, distant and muted rumbles, served in the office of subtle reminder.

   There is no escape from the collective, just moments of reprieve. A moment like this one, draped in peppered silence.

   And though it may be the feeblest of voices; weakened by so many, many miles, humbled in the down lights, the sway of our general at arms. To you, so fresh and unweathered, to such delicate ears, it must sound like a zoo is burning down.