The quality of winter afternoon light on an undulating English heath(crisp but dull))pushing its way through the last young beech leaves; hundreds of shades of copper, green, puffed moody clouded tangles and lattices of branches, boughs(seemingly infinite); thrushes, robins and magpies hardly ever seen but always singing nonetheless. In this congested land though, the traffic and jet engines are never far away, human noises mingling with the eddies of wind moving through that  high branch now, this holly bush next, lifting the bracken, pushing it back down again.

And dere footfalls!

If you dislocate your mind for a moment and concentrate on the cumulous clouds(white, graduated grey to black, and bronze) the sound of the rumbling metropolis could indeed be the motors of the clouds above. Stretch, I know, but if there really is such a thing called infinity mention of

In another world, six times removed but absolutely parallel to ours, clouds may indeed be powered along by intelligent motors.