As if some great and slow moving leviathan, winter’s hunger grows and sweeps across the Midwest now. Though we scarcely believe it after a persistent and peculiar Summer. As if someone had pulled the plug that held life in place since this past April, all of it draining away. As if Everything sinks a little into itself — sliding behind the spruce and evergreen. Trees to withstand whats to come serving as turret and battlement, rampart and parapet. Defenders against winter’s sour-shrill breezes, talons of theft.

For now, the roses droop and defy. The zinnias endure until the hard frosts begin to swell and bake away their colors. And so they fell and clothed the keen in their shimmering funeral dirge. Rot consumes our fields and gardens while the creeping pestilence of cold begins to drag us beneath the sepia tone sky.

Tomorrow ever a little less welcome.

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