The First Week

A solitary pidgeon perches on a telegraph pole And sings her call. Other than her, the world is quiet. The constant rush of rubber on tarmac Has finally ceased. Gone, the mechanical birds, bees and bugs Filling the air with their droning busyness. The warm wind has dropped to hush the rustling. Even the neighbourhood dogs Respect the silence and sleep soundly. The only noise is that of sunshine And nature exhaling her contentment. The pidgeon starts! And takes to the air.

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