The village has temporary traffic lights again.
As I wait on red, a tree in the graveyard jiggles. It’s almost a percussive movement – the bird bustles high above the lights.
In terms of travel, I’m neither a cutter or a thruster, so I’m not fussed. I’m happy queuing here, watching the bird traverse between the big house and the graveyard.
The whole road was closed, for the gas line. We had to drive round the villages up the back for weeks.
Then there were times that the snow made it difficult to pass through, walking or driving.
Last summer, the road from our village to the next town was shut at the other end.
Remembering a series of traffic curtailments grounds me here. In a good way! Being part of something. Including the mini-annoyances, the wonderful things, even this waiting.