This is the season of nothing, of standing in the yard on the dry leaves and the tired grass, feeling a slight wind from the northeast. It is November. Frost begins to form along the top of the fence; how elegant, the night’s white monogram I press my finger into, then touch my lips for the sensation of cold. The stars are large and gorgeous, and I am happy. I have no desire for anything but this perfection, and to die gathered under night’s dark, tight wing.