11am The house yawns, swallowing a passing breeze through the highest branches of the garden tree. The dog, by the hearth, stretches her haunches, curls once around, and settles back on the rug. A shadow passes through the room, halting fervent fingers, and waving goodbye to a train of thought now hurtling into leaves. The minute lingers too long. In the kitchen there is coffee, and cake taken straight from the fridge. Pots are washed. Washing is hung. The house continues its dreams.