this, an almost winter

this, an almost winter, beyond the window glass a little white, yes, a little cold, yes—a lot bird chatter

and streaming sunshine—but no drift, no crystalline glare slamming my eyes, no climax of foul weather reportage and shut-downs, no excitement with hulking plows and their forceful rumble and snow rising up like great fortress walls. there is none of that, there is only a meager crust from small morsels of flakes

sprinkled stingily over these winter weeks, packed down, icy ugly, pocked with a porridgy thaw turned to cinder block refreeze and back again, no fun only hazard, no man in the yard with a carrot nose, button eyes, a rakish grin, only hungry chickadees and titmice sitting on high branches hammering away at sunflower seeds nipped from the feeder.

fluffed feathers, a twitch of tails, and me, puffed plumply in my own (hardly needed) down—they, surprised by the sight of me, me surprised by a lovely shiver of shells descending to earth—in my own thrilling forecast this momentary storm swirls merrily in my heart—it is winter after all.