Winter is officially here when Garrison Keillor offers his annual celebration.
The weather, he says, is making a serious effort to kill you,
and that’s clarifying, it strips away non-essentials.
Your job is to stay alive.
You’re not a waitress or a plumber or a professor.
You’re a mammal.
There’s no distinction by class or talent,
there’s not even gender, if you’re dressed properly.
I found a warm blooded neighbor, well-dressed, a couple days ago,
emptying the birdfeeder on the back porch.
He didn’t mind the porch light, didn’t mind the bedroom overhead light,
not even the swivelling bedside lamp.
But my flashlight, and my presence,
just two 1/8″ sheets of glass and 1/4″ of inert gas between us,
that gave me enough light for a picture
and made him feel unwelcome.
He descended, backwards,
like a white bronco in a slow chase.
I told him he could stay,
if he’d just take off the mask.
