I sit in a chair,
Looking out the window, at the trees,
The long black branches, bare of any leaves
Images of tropical cities fill my mind
Scraps of paper lie to the left of me, notes of a poet's imagination
I begin to feel the cold
A house stares back at me, windows empty
Nobody moves
The wind blows heavily against the walls of what I call home
Howling, bellowing, beckoning
Sounds of distressed songbirds distantly arise
Frost covered fields, a frozen lake
White sky
A clean slate
The wind blows through the trees
Silently calling
Howling, bellowing, beckoning...
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