A magpie tilted its head on the railing. I stopped, laundry in my arms. The warm sunlight carries the smell rising like steam from the wet quilt. That smell brushed past my shoulder. Where the magpie flew off only the empty railing remained, and the laundry swelled once more in the wind.
A drop of dew a magpie had drunk from lay on the rooftop floor, so I carefully stepped around it. Dry laundry rustled softly beside it.