Wait until next year

I step out of the front door and there is a gentle mist descending. A smoke-like fog. Or perhaps a fog-like smoke, as there is a whiff of burning in the air.

It seems like there is always a fire somewhere around here. There is a man at the allotments who burns more than he grows. He burns more than you could possibly grow on the small patch of land he tends. I think he just brings things over to the allotment to add to his perpetual bonfire. Ash is his harvest.

The mist and the smell of smoke and the twilight is almost too autumnal. I wonder if I will discover a production crew around the corner, tasked with creating the archetypal autumn morning.

Dustmen clink and clang glass from bin to larger bin to dustcart. I see a stray bottle of vodka on a front lawn. Maybe they dropped it. Maybe the homeowner dropped it on their way to fill the bins. Maybe someone abandoned it there last night. There is a story behind the bottle. Perhaps it has been nursed for years, a vodka and tonic on special occasions. Perhaps it was consumed in one night, a companion for the walk home, discarded on a stranger’s lawn. Perhaps something else.