I step outside, embrace the cold,

At least in theory.

On the verge of the yard

I see a dozen birds among the fallen leaves,

Knowing, even as I presume them to be birds,

They are leaves stirred by the chill breeze.

I come outside nearly every day at this time.

I bring an apple, peanuts in the shell,

And a quart yogurt container, empty, for the shells and core.

When the sun is out during the cold months I eat and bask.

During the hot days I do the same 

In the shade of the hackberry and redbud trees.

Today, sunny, I sit with my back to the shop,

Face to the sun, north wind blocked.

I am warm.

I listen to the breeze through bare branches. 

Above the breeze I hear the heat pump fan and compressor,

Necessary evils that keep us cool in the summer

And warmish in winter.

The racket is a steep price.

I've longed for the days of teepees,

Of wigwams, manyattas, yurts.

I've longed to be a flint-knapper.

I've longed for a lot of things,

Many of which I have expressed here.

I make no secret of my longings

Which I would call confessional 

Were it not for my lack of associated guilt.

Nothing to confess, much to confide.

I eat my lunch, then bask, sleepily.

I rouse and read Sharon Olds.

I pay no attention to the deer,

They are ubiquitous.

They pay no attention to me.

It is almost too cold.

The blue sky is turning overcast.

I will go in soon, the sun, even at one o'clock,

It's too low and diminished for warmth. 

I may write of this.