Autumn in northern Europe. Wet and cold. Leaves totter lamely at branch ends, but only for a moment. A last knock of wind sends them flying across the green and along the road.
At the kerb, a small dog strains against its lead, its nose pushed into the air, sensing the change, decoding the clues salted into each new gust.
On the mat by the door, a pair of ankle boots my wife has kicked off near the radiator. Her umbrella half-mast on the mat as well, still dripping.
On the news, video of the first buick swans to settle on these eastern marshes this year, wintering here, for now at least, to escape the harsher Russian cold.
The morning sun glints along a ragtag line of parked cars, their windscreens a breathless bloom of frost.
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