Monday, 26 July 2004

Dead Air

This kind of stillness is hanging over us. Even though it isn't hot exactly its stifling and close. The air tangible on the skin.

The abrasive call of a magpie reverberates between the houses on a residential street. Its dead quiet and dead still.

When I get home there's a sick pigeon sitting on the windowsill. He's sort of pinky with an ankle cuff on. We look at each other through the glass. Unsure what to make of each other. Eventually I decide to just leave him alone.

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