WeatherThere is a false spring here, and the sky yellowsaround the edges, where the hills are moltencowpats steaming over the bay. Butterflieserupt from a south facing wall, and bees swayleaden to oozing flower beds. At the endof Wood Lane the air is quiet and birdshitrots aborted leaves in a puddle abovea drain. Barefooted, the foxes avoid itby a good two yards. Flies, who once battedsuicidally within frosted panes, waftcarefree around the concept of glass, to roam over tanned masonry unhindered untilnext week’s snowfall, after which just the nakedfootprints of foxes and masochists remain.
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