Day nineteen : A stand of birch trees stood sentinel in the dark.
A spool of thread, attended by a stray button, awaited the mending at hand.
Day seventeen : A crow lit in the yard for a moment, tentatively. It tested the wind, then flew off to an unknown destination; a hooded gleam in its eye.
Out the back window, where the trees climb higher than the roof, rain soft patterings on wet leaves; there is no wind today.
The leaves have not even begun to consider a change of wardrobe, as Summer lingers; couch surfing straight into October.
(This is from last week, when it was still in the 80ºs.)