by Steve King
That frigid season had come,
each dawn with a shiver.
He tended the bleak hours
with all that habit could engender.
Neatly pinioned in between
things most felt and those unseen,
carnivore’s howl of blistering wind,
roiling sky full Pleistocene.
Despite best efforts not to call
on memories unfit for words,
his ghosts still played a-foul in the air:
intoned the rustle of dead leaves,
songs of whithered birds.