The birds don’t sing prettily here, they squawk noisily at each other as they compete for the better branch and the bigger bug. It is sunny, but cool. Windy, but still. The streets are greyed by the lack of people. The bright red flowers on the poinciana trees hemming the curb-side dance delicately. Their stained glass colours are brought to life by the midday sun, warming the bunches until molten and dripping. One drop falls at a time, slowly, steadily. They darken on the concrete and become brown sludge with new rain.