Tuesday, September 18

• In the almost eerie quiet of the morning of the deserted street on the morning before Yom Kippur, three different birdcalls, from three different directions.
• The coming autumn in the breeze that blows towards me, smelling of wet.
• Shadowed blue silhouette of trees, reflected in the glass of the bus stop, providing an illusory vista

• Scatters of light, breaking through the distant fence and falling over the tiled rooftop.

• two dying roses growing beneath the dead brown leaves of the tree