She sits in a half lotus with a fishing
pole. A small sailboat
tacks the easterly wind. I say a rosary

for a friend who is ill. Across the lake,
dogs run on the sand, their barking is
like the cry of disembodied crows

caught on the wind, loosened
from the hardwoods. At the foot
of the maple, a cicada shell,

split and paper thin, quivers
with each gust. Kites on the far ridge
strain on nylon strings. The spider

stretches the snare of his web
between the holly branch and the dining
shelter. Suspended as if in constant

prayer, the calm geometry
of his web, unbroken and deadly, collects,
gives pause to the long wait.