saturday

The sky is gel-grey and peppered with birds; the wind gusts and swirls the leaves in their insane circles. Autumn is sure. Gold and red and cold. If I walk early to the store, it’s not yet crowded. A stray old lady is also on her way; another’s heading back. Both carry dark straw baskets, the favored shopping bag of that generation. I pull my squeaky trolley. November is my birth month, and I feel at home here. This is the cold I come from. The sky will hold this grey all day and not rain. Germany and its pleasant inclemency. I come around the corner of the brick church. Someone has hurled a pair of Birkenstocks at the front door.