WHen clouds race in, and quietly slam the shutters
shut, by which our little valley gathers its poor light,
I fold myself in coats and totter out
to gate the stock into their shred of barn
and gather bits of wood to start a yellow fire.
There are no lights except in neighbor's yards,
sputtering through naked arms of trees
wracked in winter-sleep. My shadow
jumps and runs away and back, afraid of itself
when reft of the comforting nightly field of stars.
I smell the creek, its life returning early
after the death of summer, slumbering under stone,
and stop beside the bridge to kneel and listen
to the slowly filling pools. Darkness above and below,
and the sound of water, of rain, and of wind
heavy with yet more rain. I walk, feeling the way
with my shoes, to the upper garden, and try to read
this wind. Its message is not in my speech,
and it rumbles north, unheedful, an unloved thing.
I wish for Orion, and solstice, and the circle of days,
and shift my load of sticks, and shuffle toward the door.