The weather has changed, but when doesn’t it? It is warm and close, the air outside is thick with suspended water and whilst the sky may be grey, making it seem like it should be cool, it is hotter than ever. It’s the kind of heat a body can’t stand, when sweat doesn’t go anywhere but spills in thick rivulets down face and back making clothes sticky and uncomfortable. Outside everything is abundance; fields are ripe with flowers, the grass has grown tall, and the bees buzz lazily from one flower to another, drunk on plenty. I see clover and buttercup, the vivid splash of poppies here and there and masses of tiny yellow flowers I can’t name. I watch house martens swoop in the dense air, unfettered by the heat that oppresses us land-bound humans and I wish that I was lighter, that I could fly, that I could swing and swoop and feel weightless in a way I can only experience, otherwise, in my dreams. I wonder to what extent my attention to these things is primed, influenced, as I bury the thought of a desperate woman tossing her baby from a window to save it, bodies pressed against sweated glass and the crackle of a building caught in the grip of a fire that never should have happened.