92

It is August and it looks like November. Rooftops slick. Streetlights look out of place because they are on. The small stones of light run down the panes and spill onto the wood of the frame. There’s no birdlife; even the goldfinches have given up on the niger seeds. The great wash of the sky looks like the artist couldn’t be bothered. And the wind is sharp through all the little cracks. It is August and I’m thinking about lighting a fire. Somebody call Al Gore.