In the morning we are domestic cats sleeping cosy on the covers of chintz.
But later that day we walk. In the heat of the day we walk, over the hill and across the rock where the squil grows and dots the green with a lighter blue and down to the deep green where the bluebells grow.
It is hot. We walk panting like jungle tigers and seek the shade.
She has brought a book and lies in the long grass to read of swans and nettles and cloud castles and love, but it is too hot to read so we help Her by sitting on the words.
And over the hill and down through the meadow where the skylarks sing and buzzards trail over the sky we make our way to the stepping stone bridge, so hot that the dog lies in the stream for coolness of water.
Then home, up the hill, to rest again before the moon comes.