Cold Comfort

Cold Comfort And so the ducks of season – fled left me standing – holding bread as leaves – fresh fallen - drifted by the tears of trees that couldn’t cry. The muskrats weave their mounds of reeds while squirrel and chipmunk search for seeds preparing for long winter’s nap cold fingered tree - withdrawing sap. Coyote’s yip and wolves low growl soon to turn to hunger’s howl baying at the harvest moon reflecting only cold - at noon. As the crust of captive bread submerges I bow to instinct driven urges. John G. Lawless 8/24/2014