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
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