At first glance it doesn't holler Edward Hopper.
But it whispers "Nighthawks" as I sit here having breakfast.
It is a rare snowy morning in central North Carolina.
For once it really does make sense to close the schools.
The danger comes not from the snow itself,
But from people unaccustomed to driving on slippery streets.
Arcade "bumpercars" with real cars.
I have made a steaming bowl of oatmeal with raisins and maple syrup.
The breakfast nook has two walls of windows, and I raise the blinds.
Now I sit in a bubble amidst the bluster.
Snow covers the bushes, and the pampas grass sways in the wind.
I am doing "other things." Reading, working on a lecture,
Checking my email to see if my classes have been cancelled.
But the whisper persists, drawing my attention again and again
To the empty bird feeder at the edge of the "natural area" behind our home.
It has apparently been empty for a while, since it attracts no hopefully patrons.
And perhaps it is an unneeded adornment, here in a soft Southern lawn.
But today, as the snow rattles against the window, I can almost see them.
An early robin, a resident blue jay, and a marauding squirrel
Sitting there together; yet glumly spaced.
Wings and paws wrapped around the lonely comfort of a cup of coffee.
