Sunset

visiting my childhood home, my father's home now. getting the boy ready for bed up in one of our old rooms, the sun pouring an orange rectangle onto the wall. the crabapple branches offered it the shape of webs; criss-crossing, swaying, gray webs in the peach light. ancient cobwebs never dusted down, fallen into each other, no distinguishable pattern. dancing, just as they are.

Glorious Day