Geminids

Clumsily I slip out of bed.
I have a need to see.
Merino socks,
then blue speckled slippers,
gray turtleneck glides over my nightgown,
pants on (inside out)
scarf, gloves, mittens, hat,
finally coat.
I step outside,
my glasses fog,
my hat falls off,
with mittened hands I am helpless.
I start over,
step into my sleeping bag and sit on the ground
the cold, snow-covered ground.
My glasses fog
my hat falls off.
With mittened hands I am helpless.
I start over,
then settle,
my back against
the cold, snow-covered ground.
My glasses fog once more
before I but them into a pocket.
Quiet . . .
A muffled crunch of snow in the nearby woods . . .
A dark shape flies closely overhead
while bright specks dart across the black plane above,
through my small field of vision
defined by wool and down-filling.
It is nine degrees and I'm counting.
Z-z-zip. One.
Z-z-zip. Two.
Z-z-zip. Three.
Seventeen more flaming chunks of matter.
The pre-sun dawn urges me inside
as the star spangled morning
fades to a pale gray
and I retreat
into warmth.