The cats are no fools. They bedded themselves in their plush doughtnuts as soon as they rose from my own bed. All day, they have slept, barely repositioning or peeking.
They know weather.
No sunny spot to stretch across, no open door to deck, no birds to draw them -- jaws chattering -- to the windows.
This cold gray day after several sunny warmer ones hibernates them again.
Not to worry I assure them. These are the death throes of winter.
as people winter,
when bruised or punctured
failing to hold within
and skin dries
what was once within
veins thin rills of blue
The daffodil, in its last throes like winter, shows its linear skeleton.
Some people read weather, not for the sake of prediction but for the sake of creation. Artist Natalie Miebach collects data and weaves fantastical storms, sometimes composes in musical form.
This is my kind weather, especially on a day like today.