In the morning, I listened to the icy low of cows. The sunlight flickering off the frost like a whiteness, a white eyelet sheet over the mountains, over the window, over the bedroom. A thousand eyes peeping through. A thousand spies shivering, recording.

...

For every romantic gesture, a counter gesture. The wisteria shying from and needing the sun. Dependant too on latticing, old bark, fencing, things on which to cling.

- Jenny Boully, [one love affair]*