In the desperate back yards where summer slaughter met with unspeakable growth and blossomed with decay, it is silent.
I click on keys while chatter dins like thick smoke hovering at neck level and everything is dirty, but in the back yards it is quiet.
Here my head is elsewhere and careless with proud defenses and in my back yard the crowd tenses, waiting for some vague event that arrives so slow it passes unnoticed.
Acorns aloft pitched to the earth from bitter old gnarled branches start the program and the wind that flicked it loose lifts your collar but you missed it, you fucking missed it.
