Today is going to be a hot day. I can feel it in the draft about my ankles as already, even this early in the morning, the sun has started heating the air about me: forcing it up and letting the cooler air rush in. The threadbare foliage of our skinny pear tree rustles. The first, delicate blossom has appeared. The air is clean and the morning calls of birds are clear.
Cotton wool, in places, washes out the pastel sky. I can't see the sun yet - I sit in the shade cast by the house overlooking the back garden that faces north. Two wood pigeons, one near and one far, mourn to one another. A car horn sounds. The muted growl of a van and the kiss of a tire dropping the curb.When I strain, I can hear a swoosh, like a knife cutting shallow water - a motorway?
I went to the effort of brewing coffee this morning, but I am clumsy at it and it has come out weak, watery and lacking that kick that opens me up in the morning. I am still dressed in pyjamas and I should shower, maybe. There is a timber yard one road over and the noise and whine of the saws have started up. They interfere with the stream of my conscious thought: as dominating as the rising sun.