Green pail overturned in the garden,
the creaking hinge of a gate.
Above pebbled blankets of cloud, the sound
that groups of birds make, flying south.
The sticky wad of silk a spider wrapped
around a pouch still faintly pulsing.
Pale slick like melted butter
around a rising moon.
Branches that gave fruit after fruit
now mired in difficult remembering.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.