Out on a run, I could here the jangling racket of large farm machinery somewhere in the distance. It echoed across the low hills of my running loop.
Finally, I found it. The crackling dry wheat was being cut.
Here’s a slow summer moment in south-east France.
The scent is an intoxicating mix of warm baked grass, honey, and a hint of something sharp and invigorating.
And here’s what it looked like two days later. The summer scent drew a small flock of ducks from a nearby pond. That, and probably the scattered grain. Lucky ducks.