And it’s cool.
And there’s snow already falling high in the hills.

We wake to a distant white bloom.
It’s eventual locomotion never denied.
Winter a deep burden.
The summer not gone, but somehow forgotten?

This day wakes but doesn’t move.
It slanders nothing,
the leaden skies refusing to drift.

Fogs in the river bottom gone nearly permanent.
What temperature does to the brain.
How it winnows
and focuses,
shaping survival and movement of necessity.

Our house is an ever-shrinking mass
of things being hidden in boxes and boxes
The heart lunging with urge,
the mind taking space for words,
their transient powers just that.
It is momentarily still.

cloudz: cha: