A solitary pigeon perches on a telegraph pole

And sings her call.

Other than that, the world is quiet.

The constant rush of rubber on tarmac

Has finally ceased.

Gone, the mechanical birds, bees and bugs

Filling the air with their droning busyness.

The warm wind has dropped,

Hushing the rustling.

And even the neighbourhood dogs respect the silence,

Sleeping soundly.

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