The fire engines are out again, howling up and down the road all night. Looking for a fire they have lost? Rushing in loud, fading to far away, sweeping back round.
When it goes quiet, we sit still and listen. Things are eating their way in to our home. All our doors are made of wood. The house is full of paper.
It becomes important that we leave and now, so we climb through the window. Only late-night readers are still sitting in their lit-up front rooms, caught on the hook of some book they want to finish before sleep. Just in case they do not wake again. We do not feel we can disturb.
The sound of a fire engine, then the feel of it going past, and it makes us feel small and light, as if we are morsels that bigger animals don’t even notice at all.