Hung in the gathering leaves
(Like cages, I say), the late
Oranges swing in the rain,
Balancing, now, back and forth.
We watch them through the window.
If cages, you answer, they
Must be for crickets, bringers
Of good luck, they are so small.
True. . .

            However, that black spot
On each — that seems to lean out,
That seems to proffer itself—
ls not from any cricket,
No, but something else which has
No name, and will not ever sing.