The wind gets inside a small, plastic flower pot that has blown on to the road. The pot dances and jumps, wobbles and trips, stops and stares and gapes at whatever is in front of it, as though shocked by what it sees. The wind blows into the pot, shoves it here and there, puffs through it and emerges from the little drainage holes in the base. It is a living pot leading a carefree life dictated by unforeseen and unknowable forces.
From our bedroom window this morning I watch the remaining leaves on the tulip tree flutter in front of the cloud-creamy light of the sun. They flash in their fixed positions like numbers on a screen.