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Our conclusions are wrong.
Take this storm, for instance, damp,
scaring us out of the northeast,
plastering the trunks, the wind
invading hollows we thought safe,
buzzing under the brass weather stripping,
lifting the vents, turning the sticky fan blades
backward in the kitchen.
Juncos congregate in the broken birch
where water hangs among the catkins,
the barn, the house, inverted in each drop,
birds as duochrome as February days,
their breasts the shade of wet snow,
their backs the shade of wet trees,
waiting, waiting, leaving us no choice.
Dissembling we
celebrate mortality.
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