The howling wind is banging on the rain spattered bedroom window.The ghosts of yesterday, reaching out through the morning darkness.
Walking. Walking.
A woman in a bright green trench,
hot pink purse
slung across her body, walks by.
Unaware of the swirling leaves at her feet; tiny, rustling cats, scraping along the sidewalk, drawing figure eights around her ankles.
Walking. Walking.
West on Bloor St.
Wind pushing back, refusing passage.
Unravelling scarves.
Desperate wearers scrambling to grasp purple, pink, green streams flapping wildly up, back, twisting away from their necks.
Walking. Walking.
