Rattle of fallen leaves in the wind. Bicycle tire banging into footpath, dark grey asphalt with sand here and there. Traffic lights peeping. Warm hug of a friend and a smile welcoming. Coffee house door opening, closing and opening again with a little sound of a humble bell. Hot drinks outdoors, café owner comes to wrap us to blankets like her own children. Spoons circling around inside the cups. Passer-bys with strong taps or lighter thumps. A boy like dancing with his school bag, a light soul, no homework.
Back to home in wind, meetings of other bicycles, red, black, grey ones on the way. Breaks of the bus number 15 make familiar rhythm in crossroads. Like the game that I played when I was smaller, always going home, eyes closed in a car, guessing in which curve we are.
Home, paper rattles, pencil lines. Water boiling. Knife cutting apples. Evening walk, sun is silent, vegetation is silent, turning yellow red purple pink. Only a few lost bees clattering inside bushes and crows cawing on lamp posts showing their area. Bowing deep, like doormen with fine top hats.
Bows and curtseys, happy morning!
