Tall, white birch trees, tight-rolled cigarettes leave tobacco stains to drop dotted lines across the evening pavement.
The raindrops outpace the autumn leaves in long, cold daggers of not-quite-snow that rip the bandage off the topsoil and loam, that beat the earth into its seasonal death. The weather is cold and the world is dying, the moth has made its home beneath the lampshade. ‘It is enough to get by,’ someone shouts into their unhappiness, ‘It must be enough.’
Another leaf falls, lies flat.
Tall, white birch trees, pale and blistered fingers reaching for leaves that fall away from them again each year.