Atop the council manse pokes a lone grey-black spire, scorched gruesome and slanted like a broken finger.
Above the hill that holds the manse the sky cracks forever.
And no-one who lives their wakes, because no-one who lives there sleeps.
Its the roosters, you see.
They never stop crowing, so its always time to get out of bed.
Theyre just doing what roosters do.
Crowing at cracked sky.
That, or I could just get on top of my emails.
