Long Ago

        
In The Hands of Winter:  Thoughts of Magnolia Bend

A lone bird flies low
Over the estuary,
Cast a grayish hue
By the forbearer of night.
A Norther scoffs bitterness
In the eyes of the lone bird,
In silenced grace banking to the South.

The sun remains
Only as a smeared red
Faded among the branches-
Frozen in seasonal dismalness.
The first vestige of snow
Lay upon the ramshackle pier,
Withered and dry-rot...
Never to die.

Soon,
The night is choked by white