Behind the Curtains

It's cold behind the curtains. The frost is settling in. The icicles hanging from the roofs are drying in the wind. The Moon is getting colder as day gives way to night; one owl's ruffled plumage: a rest for lunar light. From chimneys rise the wintry scents of burning firewood, keeping warm the occupants of a sleepy neighbourhood. The oak and beech quiescent, all the ash and hazel too. Dormant in the twilight of a year that's almost through. The solid ground is sparkling, the crispy grass is full of stars. This winter's fallen leaves wear delicate coats of frosted glass. So little sound is in the air, you can almost hear the cold.. With the gentle caressing of the wind upon a peaceful world. Underneath the icy Moon, in its bitter, twinkling night, the owl spreads her silent wings and takes to silver flight.