Winter Quartet

I live far -far North of sustainable warmth. At times in winter, it's so cold that the snow under my boots goes into frosty death rattle mode. It's within this hue of brutal that an unknown entity cries out softly as I step outside into the frigid froth. It sounds more birdlike or the soul of a white moth. I think it's praying for sunshine-while begging for a crumb. Forming a triolet with my boots beneath the frozen gloaming.