Rain predicted through next week. It is a soft, stippling mist. We walked through the Brooklyn night in it, down the deserted Fulton mall, the metal gates pulled shut in flat corrugations. Night on the terrace is a ruffling of cold breeze, a rippling of tires on wet tar, wet rose petals dropping to the gravel floor.
Day and the squirrel has discovered gardening and pots, and digging, and whistles suggestively at the cat as he saunters past the sliding door.
On the roof he digs up my tomato plants. This didn't happen last year. The potatoes are too tough to be bothered by small paws.
And he doesn't like radishes.
The farm above our heads tries to remember August.
The roses remember parties.
The squirrel remembers nuts but only vaguely, and digs.