Juncos on Mount Trashmore

The juncos return to Mount Trashmore as winter introduces itself in wispy breaths. So much for October.

Tonight’s sunset is a toddler's crayon drawing, beautiful in its streaky disregard for form. A true chaos.

I run into Al, who tells me that a neighbour—the young one with the big arms and the kind smile, whose name I do not know—has died. What was his name again? I ask. Al doesn’t know either.

A sliver of moon wanes beyond the clouds, close enough to the sunset that it earns a little attention. I consider what Kiera told me about new moons and new beginnings. What will come of this one?

Behind me, the sky blushes lavender over the downtown core. A dusk ring, Ben calls it: the slow fade of tinted night which counters the sun as it falls. An unsung beauty.

The city’s autumn colors have gone burgundy, brown and burnt yellow. The insects have nearly stopped their trying, and even the highway is quieter.

Perhaps I'll go home and make a drawing out of crayons. Or tell Kiera my thoughts about the moon. Or knock on every neighbour’s door until someone, anyone please, can tell me the name of the man who died.

Or perhaps I'll create something, something beautiful, and never share it.

But for now, as the juncos twist and swoop, I perch on the fence between two worlds: the sunset warm on my face, the cool night rolling up to meet me.