Bright water beads glint in the spiderweb
on the clothesline, this calm morning after a storm.
It is quiet.
Sun spider leaps to the languid center,
devours its night-moist catch.
Until it is noon and nothing else happens.
The blackcurrant bushes had raged in the dark wind
obscenely undulant with too many sleepers.
In memory, they still beget descendants,
born years ago when the ground was cold
and the breakfast meatballs at camp
resembled hairballs puked up by an owl.
Bird hysterics demanding a new
then time, as a squirrel, burst across the lawn -
these prove that something definitely exists
and has a voice that smells of me,
and looks exposed, and the same color as I.