I sit in my layers of clothes
as the storm sucks and exhales
The wooden windows bump
and rain caws on the corrugated roof
I wonder what the ravens are doing
I suppose they’re in a huddle
in the northeastern quarter
of a strong tree with thick foliage,
gripping the bark with their claws,
hunching their heads in their wingpits
and fluffing their down
I hope the slanting tracks of their feathers
don’t leak