Fountain

The large glass pitcher pulls my arm down as it fills.
Its contents destined for the temperamental gray stone fountain on the porch.The desert sun regularly siphons off the water,
requiring me to refill the reservoir every day or so.A labor of love.

Had the hose spigot not broken a month ago I would use that.
Instead I make two trips from the kitchen with the heavy pitcher.

I could
be fixing the spigot now
it occurs to me.
But I would rather sit in the warm fall sun and listen to the fountain babble.