Claire Everett

Little Acts

As if they had a life of their own, rising in the east with all the other stars. When we can no longer see them, we forget they are there, like quartz in a timepiece.

in the showroom
all the latest models

and a butterfly

I almost sweep it up by mistake, but there it is, poised on the tiles, opening and closing its wings in a spotlight of early morning sun. I stoop, admiring it from every angle, step back to marvel that it has positioned itself so perfectly between the saloon and the people carrier, both of which have a door open here and there, revealing plush interiors and ample leg-room. I coax it on to a New Season flyer and make my way to the door. As soon as it feels the breeze it takes wing like a child's poem written in many-coloured inks. My day suddenly got brighter. On the walk home, in the two places where I always have to wait ages to cross the road, drivers stop and gesture me to go. By the time I meet the boy with his hands in his pockets, kicking an empty can, I'm smiling, and he, presumably half-expecting to get a look of disapproval, or worse, is about to execute a nice inner curve, when he stops in his tracks, picks up the can and lobs it into the nearest bin with a "yessssssss!" Such joy in simple things. Such grace. And so it goes . . .

dusk 

the heronry fills
with wings