There is that last gasp of fall before the trees are left barren, a time of rusted berries and birch branches that look like a lemon tree. Worcester knows it is in for another salt stained winter. The stray cats who live in the abandoned lot behind my apartment sneak into the condemned house at night for warmth via a crack in the basement window, appearing and disappearing like shadows on a partly cloudy day. The gang of grizzled men who had become a fixture on their porch during fair weather have moved inside, and I can hear their laughter and their mexican marijuana coughing coming from inside the thin triple-decker walls. I sit on my back porch singing the blues into the sky as it fades from honey yellow to palest blue, and finally, to black.
