When summer ends…
The birds fly north when summer ends, the old man thought to himself. He sat in the room drinking a cup of coffee as he looked out of the window. The wind was blowing mildly outside, bending and occasional branch or two on a tree, and rustling the leaves in a light waltz.
The afternoon was slowly drawing to a close, but the sun was still up, and the light was still strong. The sky was a deep, rich blue but scattered throughout with thick, steel-gray clouds. It looked as if they were building up for rain again in the late afternoon. It had rained every late-afternoon for the last few days.
He sat and drank the coffee, and looked out over the back-garden. Birds flew by at intervals, and some perched for a while in the trees, running up-and-down among the branches. They pecked about for food such as seeds and insects as they climbed about the trees and leaves. The old man sat and watched them, but his thoughts wandered elsewhere.
He thought of his life, and more particularly the current situation. His eye-brows knotted into a bit of a frown. He pondered his predicament. Then his eyes wandered back to the garden and the birds in the trees. The clouds were gathering into a solid formation of gray above. It was certain to rain soon. The old man looked out of the window over to the southern horizon.
The birds fly north when summer ends, he thought to himself…
