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.