You look up.
Sky. Wires. On a good day, a few birds.
Wind in your hair,
the uncertain27 air of late September,
cold, warm, cold again, always on the edge
of something else.
About this poem
I think of this time of year as the uncertain time. A day ago there was a hard frost. They are predicting 80F (27C for those of you in the rest of the world.). Constant change.
Constant change. It is wearying sometimes. And exciting. And both.