This time, in November, the Yellow Days, the veil is thin.
Ghosts and dreams share sidewalks. Words drift in and out like tide.
You watch and you do not speak. This is the time for listening.
To tread as if a ghost yourself, among stones and stories; an inch above the ground, an inch below.
Day-haunting houses with lovely corners, and filling up on invisible meals.
Unseen work is being done.