Opened
the window this morning to release a sleepy wasp. Opened the window out wide to
the warm sky. A split-tailed bird flies in to circumnavigate my head. It seems
flustered. I consider it a fortuitous sign, albeit rushed. Advance boldly to
letting agency. Two properties are listed with the magic words: Pets
Considered. Just about affordable. More expensive than here. We drive out,
scouting. These places are picturesque, in good repair. Rosehill is
picturesque, crumbling, bizarre. These places have neighbours. Do we like
people? I can’t remember. I’m nervous like Robinson Crusoe leaving his island.
A fission of thoughts.
Take
a cup of coffee outside to listen to the birds sing. A pair of finches flit
into shadows on the laurel stump. They are so small in the big world, I think,
and then I think of moving the fruit garden and remember that we only got our
bed into the house because a window was being replaced. The finches fly close.
One hovers as a hummingbird does, speeding wings on the verge of
invisible.
Mr
does most of the driving, because his car is the more comfortable and mine
smells like a bin. He drives and I dream. The car curves with the road, through
tunnels of fronded trees, over the narrow river bridge, under the low sun. Simply,
I see how beautiful it is.
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