Sunday morning and through the bathroom window I can hear the wind rustling the leaves of the trees, whistling over the overflow pipes. I can hear a Wood Pigeon wing beats, the clap as it swoops from one tree to another. I can hear a Chaffinch too. I can hear a neighbour’s youngest daughter shout to her mother and her calling back, their voices ricocheting off the houses behind ours. Sounds both ordinary and fascinating, comforting and engaging.
Through the bathroom window
