There are butterflies, the drone of crickets and bees, flitting goldfinches. The air around me is alive. True, it’s nothing like a wilderness. I never lose sight of the rooftops of nearby houses, and the whine of the nearby main road is ever present. But the grass is whispering even louder, and in the distance there’s a glimpse of the sea—cornflower blue today. Not another living soul is up here. The last thing I notice amid all this movement are the stones. All eight of them standing upright in a circle, and a flat one in the middle that reminds me of a sacrificial altar.
