Slow Sunday Scenes, 8 March
Somewhere nearby someone is running a vacuum cleaner, getting ready to open shop, or maybe they are already open and just now cleaning up. I follow the sound from one aisle to the next. It is just one more sound to add to the collection. Sunday morning, the day of the time change; not officially Spring, but it might as well be. It is warm sitting here. No, check that, it is hot. Give it another fifteen minutes though and the sun will have traversed far enough across its arc that a newly leafed branch of this jacaranda will muffle its heated fury. The small talk from the breakfast crowd across the street at Bardot's is incessant, steady until until a more hearty chord is struck, a more celebratory rousing, a birthday i presume. An indigo butterfly floats by just beyond the reach of the Ibis, leaning against the same jacaranda tree. It, the indigo butterfly, seems to be searching for the perfect cluster of yellow lantana on which to rest. The stream of usual people flows past too. No...
