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.

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