(a tiny story)
On the bridge over the creek this morning,
Some vandal has tossed string everywhere:
It hangs in loops from the railings, the shrubs;
strands droop down into the water.
Doesn’t anyone care anymore?
Doesn’t anyone have reverence?
There’s something funny about this string, though. Look,
some perfect vandal has arranged
for the cold to meet the fog from the creek
to turn the spiderwebs to strings of ice;
and arranged, maybe, for us to be here
as the sun is about to light them up.
In ten minutes they’ll be gone.
Bow your head.