We lean into winter, gray
with a long fall of gritty rain,
almost anxious for the day
when the slide and slap of dropping leaves
is tricked into clatter by the cold,
and we see the muddy carpet freeze.
The paper promised sun today:
drizzle hisses in the street,
and one wet starling frays
out on the wire, unequal to air
that’s not quite water, not quite ice,
slowly learning not to care.
Then another one comes, another,
then suddenly a hundred, two;
they plump themselves, clump together.
There is a lot to be said for a splash
of local spirit, an extra log,
weathered companions, tight sash.