Winterscape
No majestic mountains here,
only tiers of rocky hills, hackled up
with scragged pine and deciduous
bristle.
A low growling signifies first to the
eye.
A high sky bathes the plentiful roadkill
on the salty brown shoulder in
useless light.
I am an ancient, brittled by
sedimentary regret,
my mossy soul intractably tuned to
the icy north.
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