“The camera’s not a camera, really. It’s an open door we need to walk through. It’s up to us to keep moving our feet.”
— Joe McNally

I suspect the yellow flower is a weed, taking up residence
among the roses
the spider wraps up one of its own in tiny strands of silk,
before delivering the fatal bite
vanilla syrup for my morning latte and nectar for the hummingbirds,
cool in the morning light of the kitchen
I take my cues from what moves me, all of it connected
in my own secret way.