Morning

four days with no rain and the air is so thick and hazy. dust settles on the windows and on the glass table in the garden. there’s a blackbird singing as though it’s life depended on it; someone has been practicing the same arpeggio on the trumpet for 20 minutes and I’m just beginning to take it in. I can’t yet tell if it’s annoying me, or just letting me know that everyone is so busy with their own little agendas every day. I wonder if the trumpet player has their window open, or if they realise that the whole street can hear their endless arpeggiation. and I wonder what they would feel if they did

photo by Hermione Sylvester

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