When the winter starts raking in,
my body automatically responds.
the drafts that trip under the attic door,
around the window glass,
are enough to rouse me
from the deepest slumber.
noir coat, snow-dipped paws
greet me at the gate of transference,
past the limit of indecision.
Most days I desire not to hear
the faintest whisper,
but to revel in a cry - a shriek
from some unknown origin.
The silver lining of pious clouds
catch one off-guard. As we dwell
in our respective quarters;
wary of letting another penetrate
our reclusive atmosphere.