November days, and the vague shape of a wing,
of a claw at the sill, at the drawn
shade of the bedroom,
signals the oncoming freeze. Setting
the scent-baited trap for the shadow mouse
back of the dark pine cabinet,
the tenant hears the cat downstairs
whining to be let in.
The tree is a violin bow
scraping the sound box of the house
all day. Close to the ribbed
breath, the scrolled end of wind under the eaves
turns back on the fine-tuned neck,
answers the shrill
jay in the caterwaul of blue
and failing light.
Trying to score this weather
for strings, no hurricane, but a planned
diminuendo, I pretend that the house is my own;
the cat, my pet. That Canada
wishes me well. That the blue shriek and the wail
area cradlesong and the gulf
repeating this gale in my ear, is an old friend
or no friend of mine.