Puffin Fun

The puffin, it's said, plays with the wind,
on the cliffs in the arctic--no trees.
He's just unconcerned with the velocity,
as he flings himself into the breeze.

He may seem isolated, alone in the cold,
but, undismayed, for hours on end,
full of high spirits, fun-loving and bold,
he makes wind his playmate and friend.

I frequently see the wind as a foe,
penetrating my efforts to get warm.
He, in contrast, welcomes the blow,
and goes out to play in the storm.

When he hits his limit, facing its power,
he lets wind carry him back to the crag,
enlivening until feeding time his hour,
he lets no opportunity lag.

As I now face the day, looking out at the snow,
what can I do to improvise?
A spirit of fun; it's not forty below;
I'll see winter's display with new eyes.

Although there is more: recount what I'd do,
the time, another demand, show its face.
I'll think of the puffin: made fun though breezes blew,
and let dauntlessness set the day's pace.