WHO CAN PREDICT a poem by Laura Stamps   the bristled whiskers of joy that knit a dreary morning? Even on a drizzled day like this, the first week of December, a chilly wind yowling at the house, creating a shrill duet with my neighbor’s singing Santa sitting fat in the front yard, tapped again and again by children giggling at its clattering chant. Today, vacant orange trucks loom in the street, their chainsaws grinding furious teeth on pines damaged by beetles deep in the forest, while crisp air braids the conversations of men hidden by needles and limbs. Christmas arrives early this year when I glance out the window to find Jasmine strolling across the backyard, three tiny kittens hopping after her like crickets: one tabby and two black, each clad in creamy boots.  If I were a meadowlark I would lift my wings and plaster this drab sky with shining tiles of birdsong. Instead, I can only clap with delight, hoping she brings the new litter to dinner tonight.