WInter Writings: Day 71

Blackbirds huddle on telephone lines
in groups of morse code
telegraphing the approaching storm.
The trees sway wildly in the rising wind,
naked without a cloak of leaves,
and shivering in the cold.
A solitary hawk hunches glumly
looking nevermore on a dead tree snag,
his afternoon meal long gone,
snug in their burrows out of the snow.
In the darkening sky,
snowflakes begin to sing, no two alike
yet all the same as they are birthed
from the dark, pregnant clouds
and fall from the sky.
Soon, the ground will snuggle
under a blanket of fine spun cotton
embroidered with the small footprints
of hungry mice.