I start to miss the sun.

O for a boat to cross these streets, this city of slosh and sluice and slip. Leaves plaster the walk gold. My umbrella does not suffice. I pick over puddles, try not to topple on stones. I watch the birds flocking westward to a field. I choose the long way home because I am now one who can. I leave the camera home when I go out to buy a biography; later when I try to take pictures again, everything comes out unclear, awash. Fat moss slides greenly down my outside walls. I read and read before I walk; then I eat lunch. I walk and walk before I read; then I come home and cover myself with cookie crumbs at tea.