One day, John Fowles, the author, was out for a stroll. He came to a yard that had "gone to seed," and was quite in contrast to the immaculate perfection of the neighboring yards. Turns out the man's wife had died and he just let the yard go. But what Fowles saw in the now untended spot was England's rarest bird.

I keep looking in the rubble as things collapse, looking to see the unexpected and the rare that only letting go makes possible.

I think there will be plenty of opportunity for such sightings as the days unfold out future.

Keep your eyes open!