The donkeys are gone, all six: the baby, three teenagers and parents. So is their hay bale where they ate each morning.
We sit on a bench staring at the cut field, the forest and Alps beyond.
Sherlock sniffs in the field, probably hoping for a mole like the other day.
The church bells chime eight. To our right a flock of birds fly left, fly right, doing bird zoomies, before settling in the field to pick up what ever breakfast they can find.
No cars, no people. Just quiet.
Twenty minutes away the quai will be packed with cars, drivers on the way to work, their minds planning how they will deal with the day's responsibilities.
They are bankers, business people. A large percentage work for the alphabet agencies of the United Nations. Their mandate can be labor, agriculture, health, weather, world peace. Many are dedicated to the causes. Others see it as a good gig, nice pay, school benefits, a chance to hone their power skills all while living along beautiful Lake Geneva.
We stand, amble home to start our day. When the grass regrows in the field, the donkeys will be back.
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