A man: ‘She’s 94. She won’t catch the train.’ We shiver. ‘…and keeps funny hours. It’s all for the best.’ He looks me straight in the eye. Keeps looking. What can I say? ‘Such a nice day.’ I’m learning English. I wish I smoked. Reading about a billion butterflies, the genetic advantages of migration and the muscle needed to make the long trip. Butterflies? Muscle? Surely not. Like Granite; Hexameter. Or Achilles; Shampoo. It’s true though! They bulge, these Monarchs; their special genome works out down the migratory gym. They push the air aside with disdain. You could run a city on the power they generate, these beautiful swirling globs of wing-mass. Jehovah’s Witness. Doorstep friend. What is meant by The Kingdom, she asks? Rain joins in, sheets of it throbbing against tarmac and house fronts. Kingdom of rain. It makes a sound like ‘something’s changing’. That’s what I hear. Yes, and it’s not only Autumn. What is The Kingdom? She waits, hood up. ‘I got it!’ I babble. And for a second, I mean it.