Living in a loft, sleeping above the windows, the morning sun pours in below as if downstairs is filled with gently effervescing pale cider. A gentle way to wake up body and mind. Things are going to get done today, ticked off mental lists, and perhaps there will be room left over for doing something good, feeling the further glow of achievement.
The city breathes in, under August sunshine, mostly reliable. It fills its lungs with people from the towns and villages around, it breathes in and keeps sucking in. They are mostly wearing red, stepping on to the train platform, the cars filling up the car parks early. On the streets, the early birds of the green tribe, the ones who have battled past their Friday night hangover to see some of the sights before the white carapaced beetle, the stadium at the centre of the city pulls them in closer.
She is not of the red or green tribe, and the train carries her back out to the city's edge, by the water, beached as the tide ebbs. Her tribe is white, albeit with a blood red flower, and she is not quite belonging here today. She wonders if she will feel a part of it when the two tribes meet next month.
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