An impossible butterfly dances past the porch: a shred of oak leaf. The trees creak and groan in the bitter-cold wind.
The view from my front porch every morning, in 140 or fewer characters
Tag Archives: cold
Cold dawn—a tree pops like a...
Cold dawn—a tree pops like a rifle. Nothing between here and the stars but the sunlight’s thickening mud. My windward cheek turns numb.
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