November

Morning, the small rain down-raining: I look down the line of cars, stopped at the light, and see all their windshield wipers rubbing against each other like the legs of flies.

I think of copper and gold, of the Freeport mines in Papua, and feel that old bone-ache, the wish that we could just stop, just for a moment. Stop slave driving and poisoning and strutting about thumping our chests, and maybe go for a walk in the woods instead. It's not as if any of us are here for very long.

Last night the flustered trees made desperate grabs at the power lines, while their yellow leaves swirled around them; they moaned and hissed. Somewhere the wind caught something just right, and it piped and buzzed like someone learning to play the flute. But it was not nearly so cold as the night before.