That feeling— a nighttime walk in the crepuscular light
of late November, leaves crunching under rain boots
I wore by accident, having misunderstood the forecast
while rushing to catch the late bus in the morning.

There’s a certain kind of magic in that kind of being alone,
wandering home at half past seven, taking the longer route
just to bask in the breeze for a moment more. It’s hard not
to peer through the golden windows of other people’s
homes without appearing freakish and unnatural. But I do

anyway, sometimes, as they fold their laundry or put away
dinner plates or chat with their mothers on the phone.
Sometimes I’m lucky enough to catch a warm embrace
shared under the kitchen light fixtures. Sometimes I don’t
catch anything at all, just a dim room and a cat perched
on the ledge. A messy desk. An unwatered houseplant.

There’s a fondness in feeling momentarily at home in the world.

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