All over the place, branches are coming down. Wild, winding winds have carpeted the ground with pick-up sticks of branches, too many to count. Besides which, ghosts don't count. They just chuck things about.
Zara belies her gentleness with courage. Like me, she doesn't believe in ghosts, but she's observant of phenomena. When the wind whips up, it's good to get out there into it for a while. We say, "hhmm".
There's nothing orderly in this disorder, but it's a disorder that's soothing, in its random, let-it-happen way. Already I am making a garden out of these bits. I don't need a magazine to tell me what's OK, any more than Zara needs a menu to discern upheaval, tangents or side-swipes.