David Schwedt
I sit on my porch, a heat, sunny morning with birds saying their awakening; some singing melodiously, others producing considerably annoying, repetitive cheeps.
Throughout the road is the brick, three-story former village instructional establishment now serving seniors in well-appointed flats. Buses not line the road. No chattering youngsters categorical their pleasure at seeing their associates for the day.
Now, residents sometimes amble from their houses to the close by industrial space, pulling small service carts; a little bit of banter might typically be exchanged between us about climate and native occasions. It is a tranquil scene.
Then my
