Unseasonably warm at dawn, trees swaying, and I have to shake my head hard to dispel a vision of charred trunks and smoking hillsides. A pale moth flutters past.

Sunrise past, the last of the night-time moths are fluttering up under the leaves. A sound like the forest drawing a breath.

Overcast and cool. A small, strikingly orange and black moth flutters around the house, and I try unsuccessfully to catch it in my hand.