Wake up, well before dawn... Autumn is coming.Birdsong will permeate the locale in 30 minutes. Meanwhile, the reluctant thunder of rush-hour traffic prepares to unleash itself on the suburb.
Is it a 24/7 thing? Or am I only a poet when I'm writing? Or am I only a poet when I'm reading my poems aloud? Or am I only a poet when I'm reading my poems to a crowd? Or am I only a poet when words rhyme?
I stumble through a small pile of unfinished work... Autumn is coming.
The virus is too.
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