it will not fly anywhere

The rattle of raindrops in the hop's foliage in the yard, cool damp refreshing air from the window. The sound of a door, unlocked, unclosed, banging a few times every minute.
The alarm sounds, silence it, today is the day for the dentist, the major thing, the three hours at a stretch job. So stay in bed a short while more, there need be no train today, Maybe later, pain permitting.

The son is up a little later, the cat gallops in looking for food, he feeds her from the tin out of the refrigerator.
Sit and write these notes, then let him give his talk, a last practice for school,
He knows it off by heart now. That is good.

Sit and write, listen to the noises from the street, hear the workers arrive at the house up the road, the sound of delevery vehicles. the sound of a small orange street sweeping machine. The machine passes, on it's mission to boldly sweep the dirt left by passers by, horses and birds. The little machine has a superficial similarity to the maintenance pods to be seen in that Kubrick film from the sixties.
But it will not fly anywhere.

The street is wet, and the look of the clouds says that it will rain more today.

The coffee at home is fresh and bitter.

The neighbours opposite have raised their blinds.
The young girls there have to be got ready for school.

The luxury of it, it is now seven twenty.