It’s Sunday morning and everything is strangely calm. The light is grey through the window, a grey we’ve accepted as the norm this summer. When I opened the curtains a few hours ago the garden was deadly still, a soft rain barely perceptible falling. The trees are stirring now, a gentle musical movement, and a fat speckled-bellied thrush is perched on our fence, lost in thought. Occasionally a rough gust shakes everything up, leaving leaves rustling and dancing in its wake.
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Mad to Live 