A Winter's Morning in Kansas

A Winter's Morning in Kansas January's trees stand dark and bleak, stripped of Spring's bud and Summer's leaf, and Winter's wind rattles bare and dry twigs, deep crevices quarter newborn Earwhigs. Lower clouds hang brown and grey. Higher clouds catch the morning ray and the silvery light of the coming day. I sit on my porch watching squirrels at play. Old age is now my constant companion. Gone are the days when I was a champion. My bones creak and shutter, my speech now a mutter. but my soul flutters like Papillon.