I look out my window and the first thing I see is a black cat–our black cat’s spirit guide perhaps, but most likely a regular black cat–on the neighbour’s pigeon coop. This cat long ago gave up figuring out if there was a way inside the coop, but instead uses it as a means to traverse several abutted properties from a conveniently high vantage point.
The wind is intense, heaving and insolent. Seed pods which remain on skeletal tree limbs appear soulless and huddled, perhaps sensing they were abandoned by natural instinct to drop to the ground in autumn.
The sun is a conscience which fights to make itself clear, to see for itself what is real through battleship grey.
Red roof. Brown roof. Grey roof.
