Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5pm.

The sun shines through ripe grass that sways in drifts on the bank above us. The stems are so beautiful, slender and blonde that I hardly dare write about it.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 3.45pm.

Ants in shining black armour have moved sand and soil, grain by grain, to make themselves a cavernous fortress among the roots of grass. Today, the lawn; tomorrow, the world.

Mount Ephraim, anticlockwise. 5.45pm.

This is a tiny bird. She is so light she can land on one of the ragged grassheads (stripped of seeds and bleached by the sun) without it bending.