Outside, well-fed jays in brilliant plumage,
though plumage is a peacock word, a bird who
plumes. The temperature, minute by minute,
plummets. A plume of chimney smoke, and words
that bridge dark water days. Waterways. Blue
jays. My mother’s way of clearing her throat. Blue-
throated birds, hoarse with squawking. Throaty
voices, sooty voices, tar in the lungs. Hidden
packs of Winstons. Once the cold sets in, so many
questions.The waves spume white. Ice water
hurts lungs. The longing for my mother bridges
ribs. Weather like this sticks in my throat. Off
plumb means out of true. Today, the ocean will be
cold (the lungs, the longing, too) and blue.