In the well of glass around the front porch light,
small remnants of wings: soft brown, dark speckled,
then turning to ash. With each rain, their smudge
more closely matches the verdigris on the copper frame.
Like letters I started but forgot to finish,
they are always about to arrive.
When the wind skims the roof lightly,
sometimes I wonder which wing is tapping.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.