The passion fruit is spoiling in a wooden bowl, stacked next to persimmons and thick ginger roots. They're last on the list to be eaten. How does one eat a passion fruit? With a spoon? The smell is too good. They'll stay here, wrinkling and folding in on themselves until they rot.

More dramatic clouds now than at any other time of the year, maybe to makeup for the shortening days. Finches on the telephone wires step back and forth. The tinny glisten of a plane far off. Some dark clouds, only wisps.

Down on my knees, I can scrape all the dirt off of the floor and the inside of the tub. Leaning into the shower with my yellow gloves on and a toothbrush dipped in bleach, I can take the darkness out of the grout. I can run my sponge over every windowsill to remove the micro-particulates of highway filth. With a broom, every bit of outside that has come inside will be taken back out again.