Confrontation.The sky behind the tulip tree this morning is like fine porcelain, which serves as a shade for the sun rising behind it. As the layers of mist shift, the intensity of the light increases, and now decreases, as though it is controlled by a dimmer switch. There is little colour: just lemon sky and the black trunks and branches of the tree where, squirrels, silhouetted against the light, chase each other. I sip my morning tea and enjoy the show.
As I walk across The Grove a lean, middle aged man is talking loudly into a telephone. He is applying for a job. The tone of his voice and its volume denotes his need for work. "That's what I've been doing for the past 30 years," he shouts; "Yes, I'm good at getting up and running with new ventures."
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