Far away, a rooster crows and crows, unsure of the time of day. It's the end of another year: early dark, frugal sun; red-green veins of poinsettia unsettling the usual blankness of the yard. The future is the tiniest blue-gray wing, flicking through the canopy; I cannot see the color of its crest, nor the white bars striping its back. When we light fires in the dark, some words return to our mouths with such tenderness; I can't tell them apart from the double-noted calls going in and out of the leaves.