A grasshopper stole my sweater this morning. Today, I suppose, he needed it more than I. He dug his toes into the fabric. I shook it; I tried to transfer him to a stick. But he held on. So I hung the sweater on the rail just outside the back door, the one under the lilac bush, and watched as he crawled into a patch of sunlight, his belly against the cotton thread, his back to the warm air.
24 May 2024