The sun hits that magic hour in its descent.
Making the black wrought iron scaffolding of the ongoing, neighboring construction appear alive and bioluminescent.
A shiny male hummingbird buzzes about my feeder.
He sounds like how carpenter ants work.
A single strand of spider web, disconnected from
save one of its points of anchorage, bandies about in the breeze like a tethered up sail boat does overnight, with its rigged sails furled tight like sleeping’s closed eyes.
The sun catches the gossamer strand in line segments up to but not including
its full length.
I smell someone has lighted a fire in their hearth for the first time in a long time.
My nostrils taste stale smoke.
Shall I gather the kindling while you carry the firewood?
My chimney flue prepared, opened after a recent clean.
Strike a match to it so I may wrap around, in the fire light,
like a little, infinite möbius