Clearly Now

Morning is crisp, like ad agency copy crisp, like images of biting into apples at orchards upstate crisp, the air is cool but the sunshine warm, a large, soft scarf neither too warm nor too cold. The French man behind the register is  his usual manic self, blasting Magic Flute arias and tossing out pastries like a hurricane. Sunrise shone down the Brooklyn street like a joke, like we all know it's not supposed to look like this in real life and yet here we are. I went to bed happy last night.

There's a lightness in November that always surprises me. Like I've finally given up my grasp on summer, have consented to the changing season and can embrace the creative solitude it affords me. I sit in this space now, with a heart that bleeds ink, sit in this dark and create my own goddamn sunshine. It will pass soon enough.

The leaves will all have fallen. But let's cross that bridge when it pummels our way.