Awls

            The shack is painted red and all the things inside are dusty. The sunlight slants in through a single smudged window. The awl, the hammer, the files, and bins of nails are all laid upon the workbench, slumbering in the sawdust air. The workbench is patient. The swallows fly around all day, their nests cling to the eaves. The roof may as well be made of moss, its shingles grown fertile from long years of falling pine needles and raindrops. The ants feel out of place inside. The air suspends itself, one molecule upon another, built in great invisible shrouds.