The fields around Aigremont, Languedoc-Roussillon, France are full of life.
I’m over here, squatting in the shade of the old fig tree–I remember when it was knee high, back when I was ten.
Pickles is panting beside me; he wants water, but I can’t tear myself away. I am lost in thought. We watch young, adolescent wheat, sway in hues of yellow and green, crackling under the hot sun, burning amid a clear blue sky spanning for ages overhead.