Sketchbook  Trish Shields, CA    3

 

 

driven as the year draws to a close high winds snap and sneer their balmy breath drawing forth hoarfrost—an old man's thinning hair rain falls sideways driven like needles into flesh colder than the ambient air holding a hint of snow promised for weeks fog descends flooding low pastures seeping into valleys hugging hilltops clouds whistle by snagged on spires momentarily before gathering in a herd rumbling like buffalo their horns rending the sky their bellows echoing through the glen bleak skies follow a starless night cloud banks holding the moon tight the cry of swans tethered in cotton batten— a jagged voice against yuletide satin a cygnet struggles weakly at the side of the road its mournful cries muffled by traffic and fog— cold and impervious to the huddled form of white stark against the teasing skies *previously published in ezine, Just About Write

 

 

Huddled Masses the sky is black with white as they wheel and turn flocks of them dotting the fields like patches of snow late October is when they start their morose honking announcing the grey days of winter heads down poking through the muck then up reaching to the sky like Dominican sisters huddled in dirty masses offering prayer through debasement they waddle and hiss necks coiled and ready to strike belying the ballet offered on the wing the old farm where some came to shoot with lead shot or cameras now belongs to the government fallow fields since July broken and rotting pumpkins sentinels for the swans

 

 

early winter cygnets huddle with their parents     hedgerow crows— immature swans fall in with bad company     November garden— hissing swans snake through falling leaves

 

 

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