This morning looking out of the window, I realised that I wanted to try to write in a different way. I have a visual memory and find describing feelings and situations very difficult. I think in part because I can't decide what is relevant to say and what is unnecessary.

I do so love words and find their meanings and origens fascinating.

Back to my window.

It's warm, with just a hint of coolness left over from last night. The birds have had their fill at the feeder, mostly woodpeckers, greenfinches and sparrows today. Squabbles happen profusely.

A white butterfly, possibly a cabbage white - although I am not up on my lepidopterans - flitting purposefully around the very tall bush on the other side of the fence. So many tiny flying creatures have taken to the skies bringing the swifts and swallows back to the area. They will be out in force later.

It was as if I was looking out onto the pages of a novel. That idyllic summer's day that has occurred in many of the books I've read.

The view has stories within it.

How the lawn got its patchwork effect, how the hole appeared between the trees giving the woodpeckers easy access to the nuts, why the clothes line is blue, and many more. 

Stories and memories, I like that.

All that information from looking out one smallish window. To think of all the stories and memories being seen all over the world - it is incredible!