The drizzle

writing

The rain is hitting the pavement.

As I look out of the window I can see the ripples in the puddles.

Another day.

The droplets on the back rest of the bench grow fatter. The rain has drained all the colours from the sky. No colour, no smell, no taste. Just the drizzle, the white sky and the birds, shrieking at each other over bread crumbs.

The road is empty. In fact apart from the shrieking birds, there are no signs of life anywhere.

Just me. Here. And the birds. There.

Time has forgotten us, standing still and no one is looking.

No trucks. No cars. No deliveries.

The old neighbour down the road hasn’t bothered walking past yet.

In fact no one has. For a while.

The heron came back. I can see him in the distance. But he is not up for a chat or any of that nonsense. He is a busy bird.

As I lie on my blanket, my eyes half closed, I can sense the cold air coming from the open window in the bathroom.

A small square window with the shrieking birds on the other side.

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