The feast of thanksgiving is set to collide with another week. Now we are hurled facing down winter's solstice and the final stretch towards 365. What about revelry and deep spells thought by the fire or over-cast skies? What will be reckoned by these moments?
The dogs huddle in the round and scraps break this circle from time to time. The cat takes the bed and the solace with the occasional treat not allowed. Crunchy steps lead down the lane with the trees naked as a new born. The sun now pale and clouds that have set sail seem moored to space and time.
The children sing songs to commemorate the passing of seasons. Some notes fall sharp but natural and the flat brightens the ridge - once of shadows. They crave the joy they crave the smells and the life. There is a huddle in the master's bed and warmth held neath the covers. They shriek away from the night's cold air that acts as gravity.
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