Winter Writings: Day 22

Blue grey smoke
fills the air with the campfire smell
of dancing hearth fires.
The sky is wrapped in
a steely blanket of clouds
gathered to storm in force.
The bare twisted fingers of winter trees
reach skyward pleading
for the warm winds of spring.
An early blackbird calls plaintively
feathers ruffled against the cold
while a bullfrog croaks a grumpy reply.
From the mud flats of the lake,
the gravel crunches underfoot
as I hurry towards the warm comfort of home
having savored the last
of pale winter light.