Near the music school on Monday evening, the great oaks, arms as thunderous as Thor’s, are still mainly green. Sometimes a leaf drifts down, swooping from side to side to land, light and bright, on the damp grass.
A man walks by, bent awkwardly from some medical cause, in a baseball shirt several sizes too big. His hair is long, hiding his face in a greasy blonde swathe. His legs looks short in grey tracksuit pants. I walk among the humming pigeons feeling how lucky it is to move easily.
Inside, my son begins learning a Foo Fighters beat – a little memorial from an eight year old to Taylor Hawkins who died on the weekend. It’s fast and syncopated and I watch his hands and feet fight it like a tongue twister. He persists and persists and he gets there and I feel like cheering. I am behind him and his teacher, watching their heels bounce and their backs, alertly straight. They are connected via headphones. I am an outsider but I clap quietly anyway.
corellas on tympanic wings surge by the roadside cherry blossoms out of season