A Squirrel On A Winter’s Day
I watch a squirrel dig through the snow, his tail dark against bright white.
He soon retrieves his acorn, going on his way and dashing up a tree and disappearing among the branches.
A little girl is playing in the yard down the street, her two small brothers with her.
They slide across ice on their sleds, falling into drifts of crystalline snow.
The tires of the few cars out dig ruts in the layer of white on the streets.
Slush turns grey, filling the grooves as water droplets sparkle in the air before vanishing.
The old grey theater a block over is visible.
The stone is dirty and ugly, yet so artistically beautiful against the white world.
A family lives in the little white house so near us, just behind our backyard.
There’s smoke billowing from their chimney, soon joining the great grey sky.
The faces of the four children are there in the window.
Their eyes smile as they watch the big black dog paw at the white ground outside.
I can smell the wood stove in our living room, smoky and musty.
I drink hot tea as I scribble, ink staining my fingers.
A stack of books sits near me, with colorful spines.
Their sacred quiet voices beg me to turn the yellowed pages.
I look up from this paper, from this very sentence.
I see my squirrel friend again, returning for seconds.
Winter Comes Again
The ice-coated branches of the trees rattle like bones as the winter wind dashes past and over the stones beneath the snow.
Like the grime on unwashed windows, the sky is a great grey painting, while the light is fading, fainting now away.
The sun has not yet shone itself, for which the snow is grateful, for it longs to linger, little fingers scooping up handfuls to taste.
The wind gallivants along again, past my frozen window to the world, snow swirls as winter comes again to life.
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