While the clouds break three blue jigsaw pieces from the sky the man on the motorbike comes by playing a tune and I see that the statue has brought me a Christmas bouquet. At the end of the street someone is shaking a towel or a doormat, for I can hear the snapping of the cloth above the whisper of the sleepy breeze and I cannot help somehow but think of my daughter, determining to send her season’s greetings, and I shall tell her to greet everyone in my name. I send this on the wind which catches as well a child’s voice somewhere and a brown puppy just passing by—ah there, the child, peeking around the gatepost, smiling then running away. What was it again that I was going to say?
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