* * *

I sweep snow off my chair, then look up to see the crescent moon appearing & disappearing behind the clouds. Trees creaking in the dark.

Thick fog at dawn, gray against the snow. Slate-colored juncos call back & forth: Where are you? A wind comes up.

Where daffodils bloomed in April, goldenrod sways— a more worldly yellow. The distant hurricane makes a roosting monarch flap its wings.