winter is coming
There is frost on the fields. Frost on the fields, hard frost on the grass, each blade bowed, silver-white.
There is frost on the tracks. The steel should be dull but it glistens; the cold catches the light before the sun hits it, melts it, ends it.
There are geese in the sky. They're up before the sun, dark grey flight against the pink. Their wings lift, but not lightly. The chill weighs them down. The ground calls them home.
I am awake, but barely. I am sliding into morning. The light builds outside my window, the day stretches ahead, but right now, hibernation has its appeal.
There is frost on the tracks. The steel should be dull but it glistens; the cold catches the light before the sun hits it, melts it, ends it.
There are geese in the sky. They're up before the sun, dark grey flight against the pink. Their wings lift, but not lightly. The chill weighs them down. The ground calls them home.
I am awake, but barely. I am sliding into morning. The light builds outside my window, the day stretches ahead, but right now, hibernation has its appeal.