Morning
sun moves across the street,
and the
frost hides from it,
retreating to the
shadows of trees and houses
what's left are small spaces of
crunching grass
bent blades, little
prisms, catching the light.
On the other side of the
street,
squirrels race across yellowing
yards
looking for
leftovers, confusing sun for warmth
sifting through folded brown leaves and
discarded limbs.
Tomorrow,
when the snow comes-
the streets and alleys will fill with quiet white
and the hieroglyphics of small birds
marking their way back to the feeders.