110 Moving Day
One, two, three and we vault across the valley and land here in another postcode where a squirrel fossicks in the rain on the moss-lumpy roof of now our garage and the back of my mind says when we get home but we are home. We wake to a mild, damp day and walls of boxes. Oddments which can’t be returned to drawers which are ours no longer. The unencumbered squirrel sits on its haunches and enjoys the air. We are in the sky, living among treetops in the region fir cones drop from. Out of the window we sense the passing traffic of radio waves. The future crouching in the valley opens its arms as the sun rises and the row of pines retract their shadows and whisper of possibilities. We empty and stow, fight through our box walls like prisoners digging a way out. Evening comes.