the world displays itself in starkness, a noir landscape

sky that luminous gray, the inhale before a storm

trees more cadaverous than ever, suited to ravens and crows

pavement black with remnants of rain, foretaste of what will come

wind rises suddenly, shattering the calm into a frenzied beauty

road cracks that imperfectly echo spindled branches disappear

rushed to gone by bulleted rain sent from louring clouds

stickled limbs themselves whip about in such agitation that birds depart

and a shudder of sound moves up and down the ridge

then as if by the wave of some unseen magical hand

this stills and becomes an ordinary winter morning

alone in the barren field

eyes grey as the winter sky

hands roughened by the work of time

she lets all she has known go

the house burned in the night

cinders now and drifting ash

stories carried away by the smoke

no more need of those

her heart too she has filled and emptied

given away to all in need

now she rests without want or forethought

sits on the cold hard ground

one breath, another, then one more

a faint smile, surcease