A Street

A few homes in the row have porchlights burning all night, but not many.
Too early for birdsong, too late for crickets' chirruping.
The rustle of leaves in a brisk pre-dawn breeze has a solemnity it never has at other times,
As if the spirits of night are saying "shhh" while making way for day.

Mrs Hodges interrupts with the clatter of her screen door.
She couldn't stop it juddering closed, although she tried.
She is in her dressing gown and curlers, gasping as her two arms struggle with the weight of a garbage bin.
She staggers a little down the front steps - those floppy scuffs on her swollen feet don't help.
A sideways lurch on the last step - now she has skinned her knuckle against the fence.
Grimacing, she pants down the front path.
Depositing her burden on the kerb, relief is writ plain on her haggard face.

When birds have begun calling, but day hasn't yet the strength to chase shadows, the breeze sighs away.
The heavy bin looks like all the others in the long line down to the corner.
Beside it, gaining colour in the growing light
A fuzzy pink curler, a trophy from their fight.