Ghosting

Cold.

In my hands, and feet. Around my shoulders. The air, surging against the house, swirling Autumn-tinted leaves in fluttering waves. Bright wide sunlight pouring down from a sky that is releasing heat like clouds of birds flocking to other places. In the empty hours of this Sunday afternoon the biggest surge of heat came from the oven, as I put on their food. The tip of my nose is like a dog's. My lips are dry.

I feel empty with the chill. There is the echo of a headache ghosting around in my distance.

Everything else?

Well, everything else is quiet. And probably warmer.