Recall through the face at the door

that saturday morning one solid blank

grey window, scrubbed slab

beyond, several feet and more

laid the catapult, a pointed edge

from a distant acre fed, wind-side.

The concentric pattern in velvet

curtain brushed my hand as I reached

to turn and swing, oiled lock routine

the knives of cold the comfort

between the welcome and rain

rutted yard yawns closed, beyond.