dried oak leaves lie caught in a piece of door screen curled away from the frame. tiny nails stick out. it stays open for days.
the porch has so many different textures of wood that shadows from the maple growing beside it become muddled when they fall there. it has sloped for ages.
at eight o'clock the light catches the bench in the front yard. by nine, it's warm and too hot to sit down upon.
I don't know how long it has stood there. the grass beneath it is long.