I’ve spent my Saturday sleeping, my Sunday too.

But now, I stand
listening to the birds, a cacophony of sound bounces
between cattail and off the
water

It isn’t quiet out here
like you might like to think.
Flurries of feathers violent flit between the stems.
I sit on a bench beside the pond—
the drying leaves of the late world carried on the cold and temporal winds. The chill fiddles it’s way between the buttons of my coat and I’m shivering, staring
out
into the open-wide.

This air smells of smoke and arboreal decay—or, maybe it doesn’t.
Everything has smelled of smoke lately.
I need to wash my clothes.