Where is the storm?
The suffused trees clammor.

Three sparrows perch
in the window jamb

and perplexed,
one’s brought

a  white feather,
an offering, for nesting,

or a sign of surrender?
Clouds edge out blue,

the ground still wet
from early showers,

under the eave
a sham shadow.

These double panes
don’t keep out cold,

they’ll shake with thunder
should it happen to show

to lively up these Monday
morning lows.