We are responsible for the weather. We promised you a Christmas like a frosted cake, and picture books, too, blanketing the hills with relief. We knew what was coming long before you were born. But those birds you love? They don't belong here. Tiny black and gold gears work their throats, mimic native songs. They can't weave a tune like you, alone in the bath, plastic horses lined up on the rim of the tub, galloping through a song of suds. I fold your shorts and T-shirts at twilight, almost 70 degrees in February. Snow has bypassed our range. You call me to wash your hair, cup bubbles like Mary Poppins singing to her birds, bringing my face close with two wet hands, then blow—flakes stud our noses and hair as if we have been sledding down a mountain, landing in a heap, deep in the squall.