Commute

The full moon hangs low to the west, looming over the city. Dwarfing it, like a giant pumpkin. My fingers are numb on the handles, gripped tight with white, bare knuckles, as I ride cutting through the cold. The blacktop, glistening like tar. Wet, gleaming in the moonlight mixed with the paling dawn sky. Almost like something alive. Hoarfrost suffocates dead leaves in icy clutches. Buildings fade in and out of view, swallowed by fog-banks. People huddled together on bus stops, clinging to the disappearing warmth. Torn out of the comfort of their beds. I stop briefly and call out to a cat, but it has other business. I ride on, smiling as I cross the whiff of a distant bonfire. Ritual of the fall.