When, each morning, I raise the blinds of our bedroom windows, the world outside seems like a stage. There are usually pigeons on the roof or one of the chimneys of the house opposite; or blackbirds, or magpies. The sky is seldom empty, but it is today - no birds, no planes, no clouds. Today there is nothing to see that moves. It is like one of those plays, where the curtain goes up on a stage without actors, and the emptiness creates its own dramatic tension.
Walking past the lawn to the vegetable garden I see a single feather floating. Or is it flying? A breeze catches and it rises like a glider or a bird on a thermal. Then it falls ever so slowly to the ground.
In the trees in Berkeley Road the dry leaves of summer say "sush, sush."
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