Suddenly, the birds stopped
by like neighbors
with frozen beards,
huffing puffs of breath
into arctic air on the porch.
They flit about
as if holding a hot blueberry
pie, steam rising from the star
cut crusted top.
I walked to the door,
reached for the handle
and then decided, no,
no visitors right now,
not this weekend,
not while the top of the lake
is frozen and the coffee
is about to finish steeping.
Sometimes silence is loud
in the winter, louder than it is
in the city, louder than the birds
of my mind, who I keep ushering
South. Sometimes silence
is so loud it makes my teeth hurt.
