against a brittle cage it's rattling
hard to lodge a plaint at matins
because you know they know
a thing or two: with ears alert
it's unlikely to surprise me.
The forecast calls for snow
but I don't believe in maps
except, after the fact, when
I've already been in place.
Then I can pore and bore for days
over an unfolded map pale green,
trying to recall a place I've been.
Canada creates the northwest
wind but Canada must be an
illusion, for a pale yellow wash
has no color on my strong map.
I'm sure the clouds are cold now
in whirlwinds a flake sore I saw
and winds have not yet begun.
Something has the power in wind,
deaf, I cannot hear its name.