The days are growing short and my wandering attention even shorter still.
Over there I wonder: How can the dead leaves of fall sit sopping wet upon the ground and still look so thirsty?
Over here I see: An orb weaver has cast her spell and sits waiting. Empty-footed, she has caught nothing yet but the fleeting sun.
All around I hear: Starlings rustling and gossiping as they eat the red berries. Their rattling song spreads across my yard like thrown pebbles.
