The wind rocks the car and sends ripples racing across the surface of the pond. I think about slipping outside but decide to sit there for a while, just for a little bit longer. The grey clouds scud across the leaden sky, whilst thin drizzle pock marks the car windows. Another gust, and a crow hangs in the air teetering on the brink between flying and falling, twisting and turning slightly to make some slow progress. Eventually it gives up and letting go lets the wind blow it away. With the engine running and the heater on, it is warm and cosy in the car. I lift my notebook from my pocket and uncap my pen. The words though stay hidden, sheltering from the storm outside. I don’t know how to start, what to put down first. Brown fragile leaves, dead and long since fallen cartwheel in little eddies of activity, blown across the car park. I stare out of the window but do not see anymore. I am thinking of the words that are so hard to write.