All weather is local, they say,

just like politics.

And here in these woods is a hummingbird,
dodging snowflakes in late April
because our tattered atmosphere
has lost its sense of north.

A green blur,
too fast for some spinning flakes
that stick to frozen ground.
She nestles in a gash in the bark
of an ancient tree,
as if it’s a polling place
where she can vote
for more traditional weather.