The
slightest chill in the night air might be
autumn’s
first breath or thoughts
of
imminent departure – and I am trying
not
to count how many more times
I’ll
pass the building with its red display
announcing
the current temperature.
The
cyclepath’s emptiness stands in
for anticipated
regrets – but then,
here
I am again at home, where,
through
the spill of courtyard light,
a
bat is weaving figures-of-eight:
a
surprise visitor to our block
and
a reminder that possibilities
still
unfurl across the distances
like
a view of autumn hills.
