They’d been there since late morning, lying on their backs, making animals and countries out of clouds, plucking at blades of grass, heads of clover. When the sandwiches were finished, he’d dozed off. She puffed a dandelion clock onto his face. He twitched his nose and frowned as soft white seeds settled around his chin. It was quieter on the hill now. Most people packed up when it looked like the sun had gone in for the day. She rolled over onto her right side and put her ear to the ground. There’d been no rain for over a week and the coarse grass scratched her face. The light aircraft was back, somewhere out of sight, circling for a second time. She covered her left ear with her palm but could still hear it, beyond the sea-shell sound, mixed with the ice-cream van somewhere down on the bottom road. A tiny fly crawled up a blade of grass an inch or two from her nose, but shut her eyes because it was too close. She listened for a while to her own breath and pressed her cheek harder to the ground. It was bustling. She tried to listen with just her right ear. There was a distant rumble, like being on the underground seconds before the train appeared. Scratchy voices were raised, then fell. The roots fought for space. The earth spirits gathered to tell an ancient story. The worms and beetles felt a thousand heart beats as their murmurs trembled every speck of soil. When the earth spirits spoke, the hill held its breath. They spoke in a timeless code, static and impossible to crack. She raised her head to make a clearing in the grass then pressed her right ear down again. It was no better. The ground sighed, the story went on in its foreign tongue, trickling along earthen tunnels and ginnels, weaving amidst creeping roots, touching every tiny creature. When the earth spirits finished their tale, she was sure she heard the soft sound of weeping. The great rumbling returned. Grass tickled her left cheek and she flicked a small fly from her bare arm. As she opened her eyes, the first raindrops fell.They’d been there since late morning, lying on their backs, making animals and countries out of clouds, plucking at blades of grass, heads of clover. When the sandwiches were finished, he’d dozed off. She puffed a dandelion clock onto his face. He twitched his nose and frowned as soft white seeds settled around his chin. It was quieter on the hill now. Most people packed up when it looked like the sun had gone in for the day. She rolled over onto her right side and put her ear to the ground. There’d been no rain for over a week and the coarse grass scratched her face. The light aircraft was back, somewhere out of sight, circling for a second time. She covered her left ear with her palm but could still hear it, beyond the sea-shell sound, mixed with the ice-cream van somewhere down on the bottom road. A tiny fly crawled up a blade of grass an inch or two from her nose, but shut her eyes because it was too close. She listened for a while to her own breath and pressed her cheek harder to the ground. It was bustling. She tried to listen with just her right ear. There was a distant rumble, like being on the underground seconds before the train appeared. Scratchy voices were raised, then fell. The roots fought for space. The earth spirits gathered to tell an ancient story. The worms and beetles felt a thousand heart beats as their murmurs trembled every speck of soil. When the earth spirits spoke, the hill held its breath. They spoke in a timeless code, static and impossible to crack. She raised her head to make a clearing in the grass then pressed her right ear down again. It was no better. The ground sighed, the story went on in its foreign tongue, trickling along earthen tunnels and ginnels, weaving amidst creeping roots, touching every tiny creature. When the earth spirits finished their tale, she was sure she heard the soft sound of weeping. The great rumbling returned. Grass tickled her left cheek and she flicked a small fly from her bare arm. As she opened her eyes, the first raindrops fell.