Over the high and peeling fence

A white cat slips, pads down the track

And stops, intent.

A bedroom window opens with a clatter.

The quietly growing wind

Swirls so an ornamental cherry, bending,

Points down the road.

The sound of a circling helicopter, throbbing,

Fades very quickly as a plastic bag

Whipped by the wind wraps round a street-light column

Slides to the ground, is still.

The stopped cat, tensed,

Intent, stares straight

The wind has dropped

No traffic growls

Something waits

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