Narrative

I hear the rumbling of a distant train 
the steady pulse makes it's way up the mountain 
through the leafless trees 
and dense mist of an oncoming thought 
but it does not come closer 
only passes and fades to still, calm time 
The large blackbirds search along the blanketed white hills 
but there is little to feed upon 
and I sense defeat as they pull their wings tighter 
against the wind 
The days are cold this high 
and the nights are unforgiving 
One bird leaves the limb 
landing upon my window ledge 
he peers through the glass and catches my eye 
quickly learning that he will find no solace 
here

Dead of Winter