I see boys whizzing by on their bikes, fed with the fresh country air. There's insufficient traffic to impede them.
Here, whatever may be thought, it's quiet. I feel that no-one wants any trouble.
Perhaps I'm among people who've had enough trouble and are simply mending.
The bus stops outside and a door bangs. Someone decides to do some gardening.
The voices might be gruff. There are undertones and overtones.
I belong here, here in a life where a warren of gold mines once made this the most prosperous of corners in the known world, but where the human beings beside me are grappling with the everyday.
Or handling, it's better said, as I am handling the everyday. We are handling whatever it is, our place, in a cycle. For me, it's a whole new one.