Watching the municipal verge-trimmer wreak its devastation Beneath the roof tiles, in the dark of dust and chitin-sharded debris,dig and chew a regiment of mice. In the dusty dark of ever-moonless nights,the scrabble-scratch scrapes its frantic tuneand draws down the owls from their silent star-specked flight,to snatch up wanderers, pit-pattering among the litchened moon-dapples. The roof-world is soft silence…

More and more often, I make lists, write poems, take notes as I walk, of all the things I will miss when I leave this place. We have reasons for moving on, but there are so many reasons to stay. The reasons are things that don't belong to me, don't care about me at all, but it's enough to know they are there and to see them from time to time.

Such a little thing She knew he wasn’t asleep, though she always grabbed the baby as soon as she stirred, waking at the same time. Maternal instinct. She grabbed the baby before she could cry, but she knew from the way he was hunched in the bed, as if holding in his anger, that she was too late. He was already awake.