I like the blanket feel of a grey day.
I like it especially out here
where I can study the flat relief of aspen,
see the grooved thick black thighs,
planted in snow; farther up
the outrageous hickeys on pale skin,
and the sky rolling in
a thousand open arms.
I split the day’s wood,
hear the rusty pump-handle
complaint of a bluejay, the clishmaclaver
of black-capped chickadees,
boreal chickadees at the suet block,
pine grosbeaks at the feeder,
take tea and honey outside with a Romeo et Juliet,
see a squirrel rifle over the snow crust,
hear a hairy, maybe a downy woodpecker,
hammer a weak spot on a poplar,
their long protrucible tongue,
barbed, pointed, sticky,
darting deep after frozen grubs.
Later, ale at the BBQ on the deck,
the hollow hum of highway trucks,
watch Doc Martin on an old laptop,
read local poets,
write these lines,
and it’s like the entire day passes
without me ever coming out from under the covers.