October 22nd 2021
The things of winter lurch into your path.
Some branches paw agog the space that’s grown
an emptiness between them. Foxes sniff
the fibreglass on undersides of cars,
a knife of wind in either nostril, limbs
about to clutch into a scrabbled exit.
The air is only cooling, can’t quite get
cool. There aren’t the peals of bells beyond.
Again, I’m looking through a bay window
at the outside of a window set
into the same wall. To be clear,
the bay protrudes enough for me to see
back into the room in which I sit
ignoring the foxes, the lack of the sound of bells.