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Dec 2016
It is the September of the day; a slow closing.
A sudden rush of air and rustle of leaves accompanies the lazy birds' meander.
Traffic thins and cooking smells drift.
A pigeon flies past the open window, close enough for me to hear the flap of his wings.
This is his home too.
My roof, where he met his mate; my fence , where they courted.
The damp soil in my garden is home to the toad and his brood.
Magpies make their nests from the straw in my hanging baskets
And geese use the sky above for their flight path.
Distant voices call the children in for tea
And the village settles down to enjoy a September evening.
Written by
Mary Pear
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