Cold Front

These mild winters catch a cold
sometimes, and the breathing wet air
acquires a thick rasp.

Wind rattles the window. In the garden
the sparse apple tree is beat
by a stalwart green orange.

No hummingbirds today, I guess.
Crows and seagulls. A running wisp
of cloud that will twist clear.

Up in the blue North, waiting,
the side of the world could soon burst
into volcanic winter. Yet

the hummingbirds come, as if to catch
whatever warm thread of life
is loosened by the wind.

I wasn’t expecting that. The world
regards no guess with its calm surprises.
I am wrong often enough.