In a quiet house, yesterday morning, I was in a reflective mood, watching out of the dining-room bay, towards a sunny sky. The brightness on the, less than clean, windows made me invisible to a goldfinch that alighted on the slenderest of stalks. The bobbing bird, on its twitchy stem, jerked its head about, watching for threats while it scanned for food; each movement mirrored in the stem.
The finch was in its gold and red finery, I was on the cusp of changing into my dullest. The suit I'd wanted in charcoal that only came in dark navy; my saddest shoes.
The bird flicked wings to a dry iris head, finding it empty, onward to verbena. I took the stairs to find the suit hung in covers. I slipped it out and two black snakes of cloth slithered, dropping supine on bed and floor. I chose the finest thread count for my neck.
My only formal shoes have seen as many funeral services as I. They cling to vestiges of mud from many a diocese; I dust each with a sock.
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