The Filling

Cobwebs jammed the punched out holes

of the handlegrip.

It was a galvanized piece, except

where the faucet stem met the faucet body.

A crescent of rust proved

the spigot had not been used for years.

A quick twist and he broke the seal.

First nothing, then a low rumble, then fluid

the color of water and blood

formed a pool around the corner portico.

The bucket was still good, was dented

but no real damage.

Silt lay at the bottom collecting

the things only winter could leave behind.

Broken twigs and stems. The veins of

broken leaves. Four small stones and

a broken sparrow’s feather.

A dip and quick circles collected the grains

that clung to the outer rim.

He swung the bucket upwards. The droplets

scattered the light and for a moment

formed a small vision,

a brilliant screen between

himself and the sun.

Each tiny shield came alive despite

a cargo of dust and debris.

For months only leaden rain

had prepared the ground and

polished the seeds for birthing.

But now the water ran to white.

He bent his knees and held

the bucket outward.

A quick tilt and the filling had begun.