looking around

Sunlight burns across apartment buildings & is scattered by fire escapes. It’s quite a cloudy day; the patterns on the walls alternate sharp and diffuse. Blue sky, when it moves overhead, feels like a surprise. And dead birch-wood trees, barkless, raise up stiff fingers to ask a pointless question. A gale could snap them off easily. Inside, a mind full of worry has dissolved like sugar in coffee. I wonder if Kincaid would see me.

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