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.