The leaves are beginning to turn there
at the end of September, and the last light
hangs a little yellowed too over the valley
before starting to pale into dusk.
There are watchers in the windows,
looking out across the aqueduct
to the far bank, the deeply wooded slope.
But what are they watching?
What is it they can see that I cannot?
When the bus drops us off
I feel how far I am from home, how far
from understanding where I’ve come.
And yet I feel a strange sense of belonging,
finally, of being at the heart of things,
as if I might now simply walk across
the ancient long-dry water channel
of this aqueduct into my life.