Winter rings us in,
Scraped, packed,
Shattered, or sheltered.

Our tan and black cat slinks out . . . never
Willingly, into our black
Limbed and white
Shrouded yard
Looking for a place
To hide his offerings.

Deer can be seen. Tan in
Headlights, they bounce
Stiff legged and brittle in to
The black trees and bushes that
Cordon off the road from our house.

Ice clings to our windows . . . plastic
Faces press at the glass.
Our walls are barricades.
We are under the microscope
Of below zero.

There is a sense of a random
Crushing
Cold. And . . . somewhere . . .

Glaciers are waiting to
Roll us into hills of
Bone and stone and
Scraps of meat . . .

Anything above zero
Is warm.