i have an old neighbor named henry who
shuffles along the street and stops to chat to anyone
available. i can hear the church bells and the distant train
and the wild geese down by the lake...
there's a fireplace and a screened in porch and
an huge maple out front about to turn a brilliant red.

but the best thing is to finally feel after a year of
moving and traveling and living like a gypsy, that
i actually have a place i can call home.

its time for this wandering stranger to bunker down
for awhile and grow some roots.