Discovered

While clearing the west quarter for more cropland, the Cat quarried a porcelain doorknob oystered in earth, grained and crazed like an historic egg, with a screwless stem of rusted and pitted iron. I turn its cold white roundness with my palm and open the oak door fitted with oval glass, fretted with wood ivy, and call my frontier neighbor. Her voice comes distant but clear, scolding children in overalls and highbutton shoes. A bucket of fresh eggs and a clutch of rhubarb rest on her daisied oil-cloth. She knew I would knock someday, wanting in.