A small room inside a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.

The first days of fall, its hot afternoons, its heavy dews. The last of the grapes scattered on the ground amidst the crunch of leaves, the buzz of wasps. I have to watch my step.

Another winter coming, and with it memories of recent winters, where I am numb to its elements, imagining sun-dried sheets and yellow lawns, awaking to the light, sometimes reading by it well into the night.