Sunday, December 11
The fog lowers into our valley; trees begin to grow a coat of white frost. Quail move through the yard in waves and chickens lay their eggs in the warm straw of the old dog's house. Cattle trucks rumble through the yard as the loads ship out to market and winter pasture in California. Kids buy basketball shoes, practice their recorders for the Christmas program.
Coming Winter
Spiderweb bellying in the cold November breeze
Wind chimes’ summer tinkling becomes more urgent,
Cold brilliance of winter stars arcs
over the morning run to the trash barrel.
I hurry through downed drifts of dying summer
to yellow kitchen’s warmth.
Flies still circle in southside windows,
Around and around,
Hiding
From the long winter’s sleep
awaiting them.