This morning, before the alarm and through sleepy eyes, a spot of darkness on the bedroom curtain, and a centipede hustles away, taking its venom and hunger with it. Do the hustle.
All the 4am while the great copper beech a block over offers its transforming autumn leaves to the late-morning breeze – not yet arrived. But promised.
“Let’s live together,” sang Canned Heat. As if there’s a choice.
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