from a high window i watch a murder of crows fly in concentric circles for close on five minutes. at this height, the push-out vertical window only opens two inches; the crow caws punctuate soft wind gusts which remind me of the sound of bound newspaper pages turning in the library.
i walk away from the window; my coffee cup needed filling and cooking needed to begin.
the metallic ping as salt crystals strike the bottom of the empty pan. the crunch of the onion giving way to the knife. the sounds take me back to a place, nearly seven years ago, where i was made eggs and toast by a man who loves me still and i danced in the kitchen while waiting.
i return to the window. the crows have flown elsewhere. heavy rain is falling, the chatter of conversations from those walking the streets below cannot be heard; tug boats position a shipping tanker in the bay, gantry bound; a man curses in the hall at a torn bag of rubbish; thoughts of a man in glasgow, whom i know is sipping tea and writing, even though i am not there.