By brian francis
A row of pigeons seen through glass
upon a wire of ragged black.
A dreary day of clouds and wind,
of fallen leaves, and reddened cheeks.
Gray skies threaten their stolid mass.
The chill bites deep and seeks a draft.
Wool and wood will fight, protect
Keeping all cozy and warm.
Crystal windows distort the view.
A row of dots, just barely seen,
huddled closer against the wind,
as though, together, they will withstand.
The crack of mesquite within the stove,
the water steeping Earl Grey.
A bit of cream and sugar too,
a day, alone, to wile away.
Copyright ©2021 brian francis
Wordsmith: At The Forge 