The weekend passed with little excitement, lots of work, and variable weather. Nothing major happened, which, as we all know is a sort of blessing in disguise. I took long walks with the (younger) dog when time permitted; the old one sleeps her days away. I looked up, down and sideways appreciating whatever there was to see. It was all good. Nature offered up a small gift yesterday morning. Fallen from a tree branch, there on the side of the path, leading between the gardens that back onto Rue Neuve: a tiny nest, the size of my palm.

It was brilliantly constructed, I imagine, by a mother to house her babies. It was all love and care and tenderness. A half sphere, delicately constructed of grass and fine hay, cracks filled in with moss. It is bound in places by feathers (her own?) and human hairs. And inside, how touching and right: just softness. Fluff made of animal fur, dust bunnies, what looks like laundry lint and more feathers. My daughter holds it in her hands. Reverently. Like a prayer, or the answer to one. You can’t help but hold it like this.

Love and intelligence are everywhere. We’re not their only masters. Great and small architects abound, often unnoticed.