North for Winter
In the morning
I can hold out;
the bed beneath me is a blanket in the
winter above me. Scores of birds
cross the border twice a year—I’m a rock
in the stream between seasons. In the
early morning, I waste a chance to move
in the bowl of these mountains where my town
is fading like an island under snow.
The afternoon is a different morning;
I carry my blanket downstairs in the cold house
and huddle before the cabinets where
there is nothing to eat.