Donny Barilla
Winter Landscape
Fog fell. Cinders of ancient ash littered the pasture floor.
Each step drizzled humid dew upon the sole and heel
of my boot.
Pressing my way to the edge of the grassy meadow
I listened quietly to the sounds of snapping and crunching earth.
A forgotten acorn, chipped and gnawed, wedged against
a jettison rock which exclaimed itself to the nearby
death of an onion root and frozen weed.
Sauntering past the treeline, I stopped and took notice
to mist slapping the evergreens which tugged at the wavering winds,
drawn quickly from the relentless North.
Facing the cult of emerald colored leaves, needles
I felt the breeze sting my neck and hands.
Slung on top of the highest peak where trees mumble of their past
I witnessed the crow wavering on the thinnest branch.
