The word of the day is: pyromaniac.
I came upstairs for breakfast this morning to be greeted by a wonderful sight: there were workers in the vineyard next door, picking grapes. Soon, so soon, the bird guns will go quiet again.
I literally could have watched them all day. Unfor... fortunately there was work to be done in the garden, so I couldn't linger too long.
Then on my way out to the garden I saw a pheasant go running out of the peas and into the orchard. That is one big bird. I will do my best to hunt it down and get a picture of it.
It had been a good summer: warm, dry, full of lazy days at the beach. Lots of forest fires.
He'd spent day after day watching the trees burn, in person when he could do so without being seen, on the TV news reports the rest of the time. The lightning strikes had been incredible, their power and beauty truly awe inspiring.
No one noticed the extra fires he felt compelled to start, and if they had there was no reason to question them. The wind must have carried a spark further than they'd expected, that's all.
But now fall had arrived and the days were growing colder, wetter. It was time to begin lighting the logs in the fireplace - a nice, safe, controlled environment to have his fun in. To tide him over until the big fires could be played with again, hidden within the natural ones brought on by nature.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself.