He lights a fire, cups coffee
in his hands and sits by the window,
The cats perch on the sill
to watch birds at the feeder,
a squirrel below. The empty rooms
sometimes shudder with rising steam,
hisses the house makes against the cold.
He thinks this room, his figure in its chair,
the watchful cats, have been gently turned
by a giant hand, and down the glass ball
that surrounds them, white things
fall and fall.