Posts
The rufous bellied thrush has just descended through the banana tree into the garden to look for grubs. A dragon fly darts away. Voices nearby murmur accompanied by the chinking of cutlery on late lunch plates. A chair squeaks on a polished floor. Somewhere someone sneezes. A dog barks. Distant, the sound of a radio; more distant the voices of children playing. Closer, the sound of Osvaldo Fresedo's 'Canto de Amor' tango wafts through Casa Luna.
Cleo the tango dancing cat snoozes, curled around my chair. A breeze picks up the pages of Stephanie's book.
Sunday is one of those days you simply want to drink in. In bright sunshine no one makes unnecessary movements, but relaxes just as the weekend intends. There is a definite 'art' to relaxation, one which climate and circumstances sometimes deny. But here in Buenos Aires the art is perfected. Time feels as if it has slowed to a stroll, giving the chance to collect, to think, and to dream.
