Poem for Thursday and DC Winter

White-Eyes
By Mary Oliver

In winter
    all the singing is in
         the tops of the trees
             where the wind-bird

with its white eyes
    shoves and pushes
         among the branches.
             Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep,
    but he's restless—
         he has an idea,
             and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings
    as long as he stays awake.
         But his big, round music, after all,
             is too breathy to last.

So, it's over.
    In the pine-crown
         he makes his nest,
             he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,
    I only imagine his glittering beak
         tucked in a white wing
             while the clouds—

which he has summoned
    from the north—
         which he has taught
             to be mild, and silent—

thicken, and begin to fall
    into the world below
         like stars, or the feathers
               of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,
    that is asleep now, and silent—
         that has turned itself
             into snow.

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We had an ice storm in the very early hours on Wednesday, so that local schools were at first delayed, then closed, and nobody wanted to venture on the sidewalks and roads unless they had to. Paul worked from home, as did most of his office, so we had lunch together and took turns distracting cats from sleeping on vents (Rose came to visit them, too, and we watched the Team Thor shorts).

This week's X-Files felt like much too little, too late re: Skinner, who deserved a more comprehensive backstory years ago or else deserved to remain an enigma -- everyone involved should have much stronger feelings for and about each other -- but at least it wasn't ruined by Cancer Man. Since it's still winter, here are some photos toward evening around DC last September: