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A gray squirrel hurries across a branch, it's tail to swipe a white cloud of snow down to the stream below. Dots and dashes are sparrows that scatter among the thorny thicket, so sharply drawn against the snow's soft mounds.
A gray sky invades eyes with the approaching dusk.
Sheltered behind the freezing glass we may review a day's work, traced in hands with veins now warming by a cast iron stove. Fresh wood adds more orange to the fire.
There is a glow of optimism here. These hands, banged and scraped like those of workers of the fields and masons of mortar and stone, are quite ready for tomorrow's jobs, even though sometimes, the spirit might retreat to a shadowy place, almost to disappear.
A child sits; eyes in the dark can barely discern what may be in the next room. Seen askance in a kitchen distantly remembered, a woman is stirring fragrant vapors, in a pot that can still elicit warmth. It must be a Sunday afternoon; steaming plates of food are seen on the dinning room table.
A father and uncle are lamenting the coming of a world war, and after dinner are only too eager for an escape, and to discuss the workings of classical language as read in the poetry and prose of the masters. Now they listen to recorded symphonic music. This was their way to a better place.
The child is almost asleep, curled up on the thick burgundy rug, with patterned gold leaves woven into scrolls and swags, remembered as views seen in nature.
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