The Hinge

The rain has stopped, the heat is gone,

the sprinkler’s died upon the lawn.

I leave the heavy door ajar,

to hear the sound of every car.

A moth is caught within the wire,

a tiny, gray and dusty fire.

It beats its wings against the mesh,

to feel the evening air so fresh.

Then the wind begins to pick up pace,

it hits the wood with sudden grace.

A hollow slap, a metallic sting,

the violent pull of a rusted spring.