A Flock of Doves

There is a house up the street where the garage has been transformed into a roost for a flock of white doves. In the evening they fly out in formation and a swoop around the neighbourhood. When I see them I stop, call everyone in sight over and say, "Look, the doves!" I marvel.

E is not impressed. "Yeah, yeah," he says.

The last time he said this was just after his return from the tennis club. He was wet from the shower but still wearing his sweaty clothes (he doesn't think his sweat stinks, so doesn't change his sweaty clothes, I think how French).

The little girls across the street stopped for a second and squinted up at the sky. I grabbed A and carried her in my right arm, pointing with my left.

* I just heard grunts and admonitions from outside. My front door is open to the morning and the lawn. Two little French boys from up the street had their dogs pooping on my grass. One was trying to pick up the poo with a plastic bag. His older brother was telling him he was doing it wrong, I'm translating,

"No! You have to take the poo in the bag from the inside and then just drop it!"

The little kid grunted and stooped, he picked up the poo, which I could smell from the door, and dropped it. "Ugh," he said.

His older brother shook his head, "No! Just grab it and drop it in!" But he stood back, holding the dogs on the leashes, two little dogs.

The little kid kept grunting and swearing in French.

The opposite of doves, I guess.