June is the magic time in England. I'm here on a spur of the moment trip to see my Mamma. This is the month I dream about when I think of my childhood here -- long pink days, legs pleasantly aching from running & the sun never seeming to set. Although the peonies and the bluebells are gone, the fields and woods are full. I walked with the dog for company, down through the old wood, along King's sheep field, across Newground Road and along the path which follows the railway, coming back through the village, with a brief stop at the church. In the hedgerows, there are wild roses and poppies, buttercups and cowslips, vetches and cow parsley. The earth feels softer, springier than California and the wind blows warm and sweet. There is not another word for it. Our California winds come in from the desert hard and dusty. This wind smells like flowers and summer fruit. It wafts through the hedges, makes waves on the hayfields, isn't cold or hard, is soft on your skin. The trains come through without disturbing the rabbits. I walk in a daze, in love with all of it. It's always the first day home that feels this way -- warm, soft and without malice.