Evil Wind Chimes

crooked fingered me in my ichabod crane slippers, peering out the front porch. watching a pair of hollow wind chimes rattle. the wintery touch of window panes offer little but the frail figures of the stars hanging like lanterns or distant resevours of salt, causing me to grow very silent. miner of that somber place, solice to that artic light i wander. followed by unknown blind albatrosses under an aurora borealis. and the canvas of my eyes seems to reflect this solemn procession. where once a moon hung in december the last of the october and november leaf like, pale like whispers across the shadowy face. tell me of what signs should be or that may come, this evil wind chimes.