One long weekend later,
All the leaves have fallen off the fig tree outside the kitchen window,
Leaving only incongruous knobs of fruit.
Last week I observed as the showers of silver birch leaves rustled in the wind.
Unlike the restless fidgeting of bigger, clumsier types, the silver birch looked as if there were a million butterflies clipped to its branches, all fluttering gently, beautifully.
And today, they too were all gone:
Butterflies, leaves, the last hints of movement.