and my September ghosts are back, hiding in the morning mist. I blink in the 7am glow, hear the geese phalanx flyby honk, dreams still tugging until I kick my legs out from the slab and journey to the coffee machine. Flicker and pulse as I grind the beans, dredging at the books I’ve been reading as autumn rolls in, Lancaster raiders booming through the night to Hamburg, Iris visiting Sleep in his drowsy cave at the edge of the world on a mission for Hera, Thompson and his bikers riding out through the Sausalito fog. Books are my only travel pass now, while I scrape for funds. Books to insulate me from my cares. But there’s that old snap in the air after a last blast of weird heat, and soon there will be frost and the geese will move on.