The Roggenwolf

A familiar dawn of dull and sunless sky the inconstant rattle of unlocked door, which plays a backbeat to the buzz of dying fly. A breath of wind blows a high, discordant pitch; wildly rings a wind bell on a porch nearby. I should have repaired the door a while ago before it and I became unhinged, beside the thing solely clatters when North Easters blow. It’s so very nearly time to step aside; let others tend to the house, the garden mow. And yet, some dawns are born splendid sapphire blue the backbeat buzz, then a rhythm of devouring melodies we made together, me and you. The sweet memories of passion flowering wildly consummated in one morning’s dew. A familiar dawn of dull and sunless sky, the harsh singing of a curlew overhead a Roggenwolf stealing from a field of rye and wild wind that whistles past now empty bed; also rings a wind bell on a porch nearby.