Street sweeper,
a rare sight
in my neighborhood,
creeps past the window
I look out from,
reminding me the
street is there.
I prefer to think
there is only the oak,
and the fern growing
up the pepper tree
next door,
the sun’s glare
on the roof
across the field.

Spider webs
enshroud my new
house, as I had
hoped they would
not. Their sticky
mass collects against
the window glass,
tenacious filaments
spanning, beam to beam,
all around the eaves.
Perhaps I did not move
far enough away.
I dream of that place
still where the air
is moist and I am
always happy just
to see the trees,
even though they
are dying.