Writing

Signs of Life

Whispers in the darkness.

The sound of human footfall on pavements shiny with perspiration. Heavy air, and condensation on cars after a city warms down from a wintry blast. The quiet murmer of voices and the gentle tapping of cutlery on ceramic.

The spitting of a fire, the crack of twigs in undergrowth.

Rustling leaves, the scrape of shoes on wet gravel.

The muffled angry murmur of an argument behind a part closed door.

Laughter and animated chatter behind a barred window, curtain draped sideways to reveal a washing machine and clinical white light flooding a kitchen where the remains of a dinner stagnated on a table.

A steaming pile of turd on the ground, flattened on one edge, brown footprints fading away down the cobbled street.

The sunset over hills of stunning beauty, flares of light moving upwards as the sun slowly sinks low in the horizon.

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