MOUNTAIN WINTER WALK

The trees breathe whispers

that only I can hear. Blue

mountains fade as fog

clings desperate and

enveloping. Black hawk

against greying sky.

The sprinkle spit of snow

an annoying tease. Paper

thin crinkle to remaining

leaves crunch crunching

under foot. Shadows stretch

long fingers across the hard

hard earth as crooked trees

reach skinny limbed up, up,

touching God's sleeve.

The tranquility of isolation.

A slow, deliberate seduction.

The echo of whispers caressing

my cold, cold ears.

©Jerry L. Kirk

'Fog Descending' • acrylic on canvas • ©Jerry L. Kirk