Sunday Morning

Sunday morning
finds me tucked into a big red chair
up in the eaves
away from the street below
nestled in among the rooftops and tree tops.
The sky is steel-grey
and icy rain flecks
bounce at the window panes
tapping out an uneven staccato tune
amplified and whipped up by gusts of wind.
Up here it is warm,
hidden,
my space to think and watch;
up here, no one else moves.
Most of the windows around the neighbourhood
are dark at this hour,
their occupants asleep,
or perhaps they, too, hide people like me,
thinking and watching from up in the eaves.

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