The Morning Porch

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

A fresh dusting of snow since midnight, and more flakes in the air. The windows vibrate with the snoring of a late-night reveler.

I am blocking on common bird calls—with each sneeze I forget another name. Behind the trees, the sky is white and gold, blue and gray.

The birds eating seeds on the back steps of the other house all fly at once, the rush of wings like a dovetail shuffle of cards.

The sun behind a wash of cirrus seems almost approachable: a bonfire, the eye of a wolf. All the small birds of winter calling at once.