for November, waking me in the small hours in the dormer box we grafted atop our semi. Whistles, snaps and thuds wobble the steel frames of the windows and a neighbour’s watering can tumbles and tolls about the lawn. The winter crush is coming, venting out the last warm air for the sting of the morning cold when I pad down to feed the cat and make first coffee. The country is locking down again and the goose ain’t getting fat. Will be a pang to see the new bookstore close its doors, I’m no devotee of the company but they deserved a better shot at making it work. And the library too, though the visits are grim enough already, thinned shelves and a plastic crate for returns, a three day quarantine before they scan them in. How many months will it last, hard to trust the dates we’re given. But here’s change, working around us. Some find opportunity in the closings, firewood from a felled tree, while others look on in wonder.