Drinking in the quietude of southern France

Here in southern France, I hear birds chirping though it's 9:30 at night. I hear TV voices in the apartment next door, one dog barking and another yapping.

There's a single car downshifting as it negotiates the U-turn off the road from Montady and continues toward Capestang.

A slight breeze pushes through the leaves of the plane tree in front of the restaurant, as if the leaves, the size of large hands, were in its way.