the homeless man sat down in the front room of the business yesterday, neverminding that my hands were full of photographs and the clock was ticking away fast to a deadline, telling me lies and truths, asking for money in exchange. a fair deal if the stories are good enough, i think. his were full of navajo code talkers and weren't new, though he had changed them up a bit from the last time we'd heard them in a downtown cafe. perhaps he'd been perfecting them, editing them under the texas stars. he said he slept on a flatbed truck a mexican family was loaning him the use of every night, and at last he shuffled off down the street, needing tarp in case it rained, he said, glad for a new sleeping bag he'd picked up somewhere.
almost november and the wind is up outside, the cold is coming, and there is a first quarter moon in the sky. we gain an hour this weekend, an hour of darkness leading us closer to winter. i imagine it with a lantern in its hand, guiding the way, shushing me when i talk too loud. i'm not ready, but i follow along.