There is the bird beak's way
and the way of the woman with child.
The eye's way
and the way of the well bucket.
The oak tree's way is not unlike that
of the cloud or the long dry summer it was
When the birdsong stopped,
and the woman stood tiptoe
looking down the well. Perched
on the handle of an unstrung pail, a wren
fluttered its wings without note. A leaf
floated, sinking slowly as the pail:
the rust holes, the caterpillar-chewed,
sipping in the weight of last year's skies.