The wind outside is angry
and so am I.
It whips around our so-called sturdy walls teasingly,
it slaps the tree trunks and bare branches
with such an attitude,
it howls boastfully until I pull back the shade to look.
In the pathetic yellow-orange glare of the streetlight,
the snow is not falling, it is dancing hectically,
Barely a flake lands on the hidden ground
before it is thrust back up into the air in a frenzy.
My sight falls, unimpeded, upon a rabbit in the yard,
a shimmery gray brown bump in the white flux.
They say the air feels like 20 below and I’m glad I’m not him.
But I imagine I am him
alone in the frigid night,
and while I sit amid the chill calculating my next jump,
a strong hand comes from above and scoops me up
and hides me someplace warm
between a thick coat and a compassionate torso.
Perhaps I am not so glad.