In the starred eyes of the quick-passed day,
the clouds take shapes and spark rumbling worry.
The night now sends hard squals in to assay
respect that tempests do levy is paid.

I have a cool idea. It’s not this quatrain from the Poetic Asides prompt (I’ve lost rhythm). The idea is from Pressman’s Home. It’s not done yet. I like the images, but still need to tie it all together. Maybe tomorrow.

Also, an oddly American sentence popped in for a visit from Not Without Poetry, although not quite grammatical.

Red, white, and blue rests in leaves, tattering seat over sprouted green.

(And we’re still trying to decide if two of our hens are Old English Game or American Game. Crazy.)