by Terry Trowbridge
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Humidity casts a cold spell
over the Great Lakes.
When the spell is broken,
humidity continues to flicker
through the grasses and leaves.
The dampness of breath
and matted fur
attracts housecats
to the leaf piles
where mouse-casting Spring elementals
summoned little rodents into being.
At night, the mist turns heavy
and sinks to the ground,
exposing the orchards to starlight.
At day, water evaporates
into a quick-sky of quicklime grey.
The obscurantist Sun,
having chased away Enlightenment
comforts—too soon for lawn chairs—
into the barn workbench beer routine,
will remain invisible.
An eclipse is due in three days.
The cats might react confusedly.
The mice might emerge in daylight
And look up at the shadow of the Moon
darkening circle through the cloud cover.
Shadow weather defines a season of transitions.
Terry Trowbridge’s poems have appeared in many journals including, previously, The New Verse News. Terry is grateful to the Ontario Arts Council for his first writing grant, and their support of so many other writers during the polycrisis.
