One thin cobweb dangles from the ceiling until I wind it away with a stick.

No gunshots here; it is quiet in the street whose one end faces the river.

The rain hits the window ledge poorly wrapped in metal; it makes a sound like tiny ball bearings on a tray.

I wanted to look for a bamboo water dipper, I wanted to carve a little well in the biggest stone I could find, and set it by the back door.

In a book, Lu Hsieh tells me the metaphor for the ideal poem is a bird.

No more wings, for the hour is late: nothing but the sound of distant propellers high in the sky.

But if I dream they will gather, shading the horizon with their soft white and gray.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.