It is Indian summer in the country I live in and there is no breeze to rustle the leaves of the sycamore tree, or the privet, or the oak, or the other trees that I can’t name but are also here and silent.
It is a holiday in the country I live in. The post office and the banks are closed, although they are not much help when they are open, at least not in my country.
There is an American flag hanging perfectly still in the country I live in. Sometimes, when the mood strikes me, it is a Portuguese flag, sometimes it is the flag of the Azores, and sometimes it moves with the breeze; today it is an American flag and it does not move.
There are young boys on the street selling lemonade in the country I live in. One of the boys is a good businessman and employs hard-sell tactics to off-load his inventory.
There are a lot of people riding bicycles in and around the country I live in. Some of them are wrapped very tightly in spandex fabric with company logos stretched across their bodies. They look a lot like escapees from the deli counter at the grocery store of my country.
I haven’t heard of any such break out, although news does travel slowly in the country I live in when it’s hot, when there is no breeze, when the banks and the post office are closed, when it’s Indian summer, when the female orange and white cat is sleeping in the sun.